In The Night
by Rynnah K
Summary: Bruce is depressed and Tony is way more concerned about that than anyone would have expected. Bruce/Tony. Contains drug use, slash and copious amounts of angst.
1. Photochemical Air

A/N: Hi there. I'm new to fanfiction as a whole, so if I lethally offend anyone for any reason, I'm sorry. I'm not really sure about where this will go. It can and probably will become the prologue of something else I've written that is Tony/Bruce, but that may depend on the feedback I get from this. And yes, I know the-one-in-which-Bruce-tries-to-kill-himself is hardly a revolutionary idea.

Disclaimer: Not mine!

Warnings: Possibly triggering mention of suicidal thoughts/actions, recreational use of narcotics, language.

Bruce should have known this wasn't going to work. He should have planned better, but he didn't know what else he could have done. He didn't know what—between the oxy and the gun— he would have done differently. _You could have done it sober, if you hadn't been too scared. Weak, Banner, you're weak. _He shivered lightly.

The world was fraying around him, dissolving into something that quivered and shook diamonds into his eyes. He fought weakly to grasp at the edges of reality and pull them back together, stuffing his hands against the holes that were opening in the fabric of his consciousness as he stumbled across the roof of the Stark Tower. _Hold it together damnit, fucking hold on to it, find it. _He managed to dig his fingernails roughly into an arm, jump starting his eyes back into focus. He picked up the gun, or maybe it had been in his hands the whole time, he wasn't sure. His fingers were shaking as he spun the loaded chamber, but they were shaking the way his whole body was shaking—begging to lapse into unconsciousness—not from fear. He was past fear by this point. Or that was the party line. _Don't even know what you're so scared of, not like anything's going to happen anyway. Can't even die right. You're such a fuck up, _such _a fuck up._

He must have passed out because when he opened his eyes to the heavy brush of crumbling asphalt against his jaw, he was on the ground. The gun and his right arm were pinned underneath him and he fought down a wave of nausea while idly realizing his arm should hurt. _Find it. Come on Bruce. Come _on. He managed to roll onto his back, eyes refusing to close anymore—or, he thought they were open, at least—vision catching, smearing into a blur of colors like the open aperture of a camera trying to make sense of city lights at night. He pushed hard against the ground, levering himself into a sitting position, trying to remember where he had decided to shoot. _Damnit. Head? No, too messy. Mouth? Already tried that. Heart, _he finally decided. Heart could work. Hopefully The Other Guy didn't pull him back from the edge again. He didn't know how he would explain this to Tony if it didn't work again. He didn't know—_Enough, _he snarled at himself. _You cannot. Cannot have him. Deal with it. Go_. He fought to locate the gun, his heart. He doubted he had his eyes open anymore, and he couldn't feel any part of his body either, all sensation replaced with a miasma of icy hot stars, clogging his throat.

Somehow, he managed to register the thrust of the barrel against his chest, knew the .357 was ready to spit its seed straight into his heart, blasting its way through his ribcage, shredding his pericardium. He just _knew_. He swallowed the ice of the December night, New York photochemical air lighting up his alveoli and started counting down, voice slurred. He could feel his heartbeat slowing under the base of narcotics, in time with his sipping inhalations. _See? You want this. You're already halfway there. _He fought to find his voice, wanted the air to hear him.

"Three," he breathed in, deep against the narcotic haze of CNS depression.

"Two," the air in his lungs was abruptly gone as he clicked the safety off.

_One_, and then nothing.


	2. Oracle

**A/N** **So, I'm still figuring out how to work the site, so if the format is weird, I'm sorry, I haven't figured out how to edit it on the site yet (if anyone can tell me, I would seriously love you, I'm not a computer kid). Also, I haven't really written anything like this before, so feedback would be greatly appreciated. I have a feeling I have a tendency to get lost in the prose and like, ignore dialogue/stop pushing the storyline forward.** **Umm, yes, thank you so much for the reviews/alerts/favorites/etc, you all make me very happy. And quick update is quick haha.** **Also, this gets hot and heavy pretty fast, but I think it works as a reaction to scary times, and obviously THEIR UNDYING LOVE FOR EACH OTHER. I will stop rambling now.**

Disclaimer: Not mine!

Warnings: language, drug use, SMUT kids. m/m action, if you do not like or want to read this, please do not, you have been warned!

…..

This all started a month ago. Bruce knew he was depressed. He was a doctor, he _knew _he was depressed. It turned out that knowing he was depressed did not change one damn thing. He could see the depression in his eyes, a feral blackness that shone only when he was staring at himself in the mirror. He could feel it in the compulsion that drove him to shower in the dark, shivering in the blackness under cold water he had forgotten how to adjust. He could feel it in his resurging lust for nicotine, his abrupt denial of mirrors. Mirrors, he had realized, simply demanded too _much_ from a person—it was not fair.

His depression was a wordless, arid affair. It had arms of negation thrust through his rib cage and as a result, he ceased to be anything. He was not interested in spending time in the lab. He didn't want to see any of the team—he didn't even want to see Tony anymore. He couldn't tell Tony what was wrong, couldn't get the words out, and seeing him only opened up a bitter well of desperation under his sternum that was hard to ignore. He wasn't hungry or thirsty or tired or sleepy or sad or happy or, or, or. He just wasn't, he was the negation. _He _could see it, but nobody else could.

He didn't know what to do about the gaping nebula that had opened up in his chest, but after the fifth night in a row he had had enough. He laid awake in his bed, sleepless yet again, with burning wires of exhaustion and anxiety melded through his skeleton, seeing nothing, until he picked up his phone and made a call. He managed to shamble to the door of the Stark Penthouse in only his boxers 20 minutes later—blessedly not running into anyone—where he opened the door to a package that solved his problems sleeping. He fell asleep that night holding a pill bottle.

After that he found it much easier to walk through his days with some type of prescription running in his veins. He probably should have seen what that said about his mental state, but he didn't. He didn't even try to see what he was doing, he just needed to hide from the uncomfortable feelings that were growing in him, that and the sea of apathy he was trying not to drown it. There wasn't any point in thinking anymore. He knew all of this would be easier to hide, to deal with, if he were anywhere except the Stark Tower. _Anywhere _else. But he couldn't make himself leave, so he stayed and told himself he was dealing with it. At least Tony didn't know.

…

Tony could tell Bruce was depressed. It was easy to see in his eyes, his mannerisms, if you knew him like Tony did. Bruce had become a study in relaxed, feline grace, all of his usual anxiety bled from him. He moved with the air of the hopeless refugee, like he had found himself lost beyond salvation right in front of Tony's very eyes. So, he had taken to following him. He knew Bruce wouldn't spot him because recently Bruce existed in a narcotic haze, which was new. As a result, if Bruce got from point A to point B and did assignments 1, 2 and 3 for the day, it was by accident. When Tony had snooped and found a pill bottle with the label torn off, leaving "Oxy" the only legible part of the label, that was when he had begun to really worry.

One night, after a long time working in the lab, at 3:15 am, Tony had stopped working and was simply watching Bruce. He was obviously on something and coming down fast. _I should ask him. This isn't okay. He wouldn't have done this a month ago, I know he wouldn't have. Why would he risk doing drugs? What the hell is going on. _

Tony had just cleared his throat, gotten out, "Bruce. We need to talk." When Bruce got up from the bench he was sitting on and proceeded to glide unevenly out the door. Tony stared at him and then tried to keep working. After five minutes or so however, he decided something was up and started following him. "Jarvis, where did he go?" Jarvis eventually got him to the roof. Upon taking in the situation on the roof, however, Tony Stark's heart abruptly decided it had had enough and quit beating. After possibly a millennium, maybe two, Tony's heart began to beat again in a choking, painful leap, thundering under his sternum as he stared at Bruce in shock. He was calmly contemplating the .357 revolver cradled in his hands, fingers smoothing softly over the barrel, spinning the loaded chamber. As he watched Bruce slid the chamber into place and lifted the gun to his heart.

Even from the distance Tony could see how uncoordinated the movement was, gun barely even in his grip, eyes closed, head lolling back on his neck. Before he could consciously think to move, to warn himself that surprising someone with a loaded gun _pressed to their heart, fuck_, was probably not a good idea, Tony had thrown himself at Bruce, who collapsed backwards onto the ground, the gun sliding from his grasp. Tony felt like his heart had combusted as he grabbed the gun from Bruce's lap, emptied the chamber and flung the weapon. He didn't even hear the slow whine of its barrel scraping across the concrete before grabbing the scientist by the shoulders and beginning to scream in his face.

"WHAT THE FUCK. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING. WHAT THE FUCK. WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHAT. **WHAT?**" Every clipped scream was punctuated with another shake, and Tony continued to shriek, senseless, aware only of the glowing coffee-haze of Bruce's eyes, open, locked on his, but unresponsive. He couldn't feel his hands tearing the other man's shirt off, searching for a bullet wound, searching for blood, couldn't hear himself screaming.

"WHY BRUCE. WHY? BRUCE? BRUCE?" Finally he realized that there wasn't blood and his voice cracked, "_Bruce," _and he managed to stuff the rest of his words into his throat, close his mouth. It was only after he had fallen silent that he realized how limp the other man was in his arms. Banner's eyes were fever-bright, his pupils constricted, hermit crabs withdrawing into their shells. Tony stared down at him, hands fisted in the remains of his shirt, Bruce completely slack in the grip, eyes unfocussed. It was clear Bruce wasn't in there, didn't even have a grasp on consciousness anymore.

Tony let out a breath as he tried to tell himself that he was fine, of course he was fine, everything was fine. He was breathing hard, breath rasping through his chest, raw. _He passed out before he shot. Oh fuck, oh thank God. Oh fuck. _It finally dawned on Tony they couldn't stay on the roof so Tony hauled Bruce to his feet, arms winding around his hips, then his waist, fluttering up his back, just reassuring himself that Bruce was actually still warm and breathing and whole against him, if unconscious.Then he hauled them both through the door and back into the building, Tony's subconscious leading him back to his room with Bruce in tow, not willing to let the scientist out of his sight any time soon. In his bedroom Tony locked the door behind him and deposited Bruce's prone form gently on the black bedspread, wine-dark sheets too close to the burgundy of blood to sleep on for the moment.

Tony's mind was blank as he stared at Bruce. _What am I going to do with you? What do we do now? _He fumbled with his clothes, hands shaking, eyes still only focused on Bruce, but finally managed to get himself down to his undershirt and shorts. He couldn't undress Bruce though, not then, not under those circumstances. Instead he pulled a fluffy leopard print blanket—which he officially didn't own—from the closet and covered him with it, shirt hanging open, missing buttons, shoes on.

Tony tried to withdraw to the armchair to just watch him sleep, knew he was too wired to sleep himself, but before he could make himself leave he was crawling under the blanket with him, fitting his hands around Bruce's form, running his fingertips over the other man's back, pressing his hands against the warmth of his muscles. Bruce's heat radiated out, warming the ice that had crystallized in Tony's chest. Tony wound their legs together and Bruce's arms automatically lifted to wind around Tony in return. Tony pressed his face against the other man's throat, breathing softly his faded scent of cologne, pulse thundering in his ears. _You shouldn't be touching him, shouldn't be doing this. You care too much, way too much. Should I be worried? Is he overdosing? Is this normal? I should do somethi- _He fell asleep to the rhythm of Bruce's carotid, humming gently in his throat.

…..

When Tony opened his eyes again, his arms ached from how hard he was holding Bruce, the muscles frozen and locked around him, desperate. He was thoroughly entangled in the other man, face buried in Bruce's neck, whose curls were tickling his nose. Bruce was still dozing (_passed out,_ he thought bitterly), breathing softly against the back of his neck. Tony worked on unlocking his arms and began to massage Bruce's back, kneading the muscles that felt as stiff as Tony's. His hands had just gotten away from him and slipped up under the back of his shirt when Bruce asked "Tony, what're you doing?" his voice low and heavy. Tony froze, unsure what to say and before he could decide on an emotion, rage filled his chest and he found himself straddling Bruce, slamming his fists against his chest, forgetting that bodily assaulting the Hulk could have unpleasant results. "What am I doing? WHAT AM _I _DOING? What the fuck are YOU doing? WHAT ARE _YOU _DOING BRUCE? Explain the drugs to me, EXPLAIN THE GUN TO ME" he thundered, voice thin. He would have kept going, unashamed of the panic in his eyes. He couldn't hide his panic, couldn't hide the well of emotion he felt for him anymore. Not any more. He had lived through as much hardship as he was going to. _I can't lose Bruce, I won't make it._ _Wait, what? _

He would have kept going had Bruce not lifted a hand and placed it softly over his mouth, palm warm, fingertips smooth. It was obvious that Bruce saw the raw panic in his eyes—live like an exposed nerve, threatening to spill over into something blind Tony couldn't control. He continued to babble against the palm, until he was finally struck dumb when the fingertips started to trace his jaw. 'Tony. You, you, I'm" he paused, the fingertips moving lightly up to the stubble on his cheeks. "I never wanted you to see me like that. You shouldn't have seen that," he paused and then whispered, "I never even thought I would see you again." His voice faded into silence, detached but laced with something like chagrin and Tony could easily tell himself that Bruce cared for him beyond what their professional relationship called for. It wasn't even hard to tell that lie anymore.

"You would rather I have just left you up there and let you do whatever the fuck you were planning? What, overdose? Swallow another fucking bullet?Yah, you're right, of course I shouldn't have even been there. You're so right" and his voice was bitter now, rough with fear, self-hatred. _Why aren't I enough for you? Why didn't I see this in you? Why the _fuck _didn't I help you sooner? _

"You're mad," it wasn't a question. Bruce's eyes found his and he regarded him silently, and he could see the agony in them, could _see_ the need for someone, anyone at all to just be with him, to hoist him out of the dark. As Tony stared into Bruce's eyes he realized that if he wasn't allowed to be that person—the person to hold him in the night, to keep him off the roof, he might actually lose it. Hot on the heels of that revelation, Tony realized he was still on top of Bruce, flush against his hips, wearing only his underwear. _You stupid fucking idiot, why the fuck did you take your clothes off_.

"Don't be fucking stupid Banner." He began to slide off of him as he felt his emotions start to drift into dangerous territory. He was exhausted by all the yelling, the anxiety and rage that had just washed through him like a bitter storm surge. He was exhausted, thoroughly exhausted and he wanted the man under him, and he couldn't have him, so he needed to leave.

He was trying to decide if his legs would hold him, about to risk it just to get away from Bruce before he turned into even more of a woman, when he felt Bruce stir on the bed. Bruce grabbed his wrist before he stood up and whispered, "Please don't leave me. I'm so sorry. Just please, don—" and his voice cut off, choked. Tony turned, and was shocked to see Bruce's eyes shiny with unshed tears.

Wordlessly, he reached out to him and Bruce promptly threw himself forward and tucked himself into Tony's body, arms gripping him fiercely, his face buried in Tony's neck now. Bruce was moaning low and broken in his throat, something harsher than crying and Tony could feel the vibrations against his throat and before he could stop himself he had gasped lightly, arched into Bruce. For his part, Bruce didn't even seem to notice, just pressed himself even closer to him, murmuring. Tony set his hands to rubbing small circles against Bruce's back before, unsatisfied, he finished un-tucking his shirt and slid his hands back under it, against his skin. Bruce's breathing abruptly turned ragged and he stilled under Tony's hands.

"Are you okay?" and as Tony said it he felt like the biggest asshole ever, because no, obviously Bruce was not okay. "I mean, is this okay?" he amended. Tony was scared to shatter their silence, but he didn't want to push Bruce into something Tony wanted. Bruce's voice cracked when he replied, "Yes" and Tony felt a trickle of water trail down his throat. Tony pulled back from him, pulled Bruce's face away from his neck, and tried to meet his eyes. Bruce, however, had his eyes closed, tears trailing down his cheeks silently. Tony, at a loss for words, did what he usually did in these situations and leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth. Bruce's lips were dry and soft and Tony, who had tensed up in anticipation of an unpleasant reaction, couldn't help but sigh in relief against Bruce's mouth when he melted into the kiss instead. Tony ran his tongue against the seam of Bruce's mouth and his lips parted easily. Tony tilted deeper into the kiss, tasting the chalk of the oxy in his mouth, the sleep of depression on him. Bruce murmured against him and then moaned when Tony tugged at his bottom lip with his teeth, and he threw a leg over Tony's hip, digging into him. Tony could feel that he was half hard against him and suddenly had no compunction against undressing Bruce. As he began to tear at his shirt, his pants, all he could think of was how badly he needed Bruce's body against his own—needed to make him dissolve, scream. He needed to know they were both alive, that he hadn't hallucinated the roof.

He detached his mouth from the scientist's skin for the sole purpose of appraising his body. He took in his winged collarbones, dark chest hair, lightly defined muscles, giving his body a shape that begged to have a body pressed against it. He was fully erect, clothed only in his plain black boxers. His hair was ruffled around his head, eyes dark with desire, and Bruce was completely still under Tony's gaze, eyes glittering up at him, pupils huge. _This is easier than talking. I'm better at this than talking. _Tony could make out the tear tracks on his face and desire unfurled in his stomach like a wild fire as he reached for Bruce's boxers and dragged them slowly down his hips, inch by inch. He was rewarded when Bruce finally broke and squirmed against his grasp, trying to free himself of the last of the cloth. "Are you," Bruce gasped when Tony finally pulled them entirely off and cold air hit him, "enjoying yourself?" Tony smirked, "Immensely."

"Good," and Bruce smiled softly in response, but broke eye contact to eye his own body, and Tony saw a flash of self-consciousness in him that he fought to suppress. He reached for Tony's hips shyly, thumbed lightly under the waistband and Tony pulled his undershirt off while shamelessly grinding down against him. Bruce's eyes fluttered half way closed and then he reversed their positions, flipping Tony onto his back on the mattress, roughly pulling his shorts off him and grinding against him. Tony growled and flipped them again, pinning Bruce back to the mattress, holding his wrists above his head. He leaned in and pressed his lips to his neck, tracing Bruce's carotid with his tongue, biting lightly at the cords that stood out against his neck and Bruce writhed under him, breathing fast.

Tony began whispering into his ear, his breath tickling Bruce, "Do you have any idea how badly I've wanted you like this?" He licked at him and Bruce whimpered, thrusting up into Tony's hips, their erections rubbing against each other. "I've dreamed about you like this," he punctuated his words with light bites against his throat and neck, one hand reaching between them to grasp his length, making Bruce jump in his hands, stutter against him. "I've woken up in my come because of dreaming of you like this," and Bruce managed to breathe, "Me too," against his neck. He was cut off though, gasping, as Tony ran his thumb down his length before pressing his thighs apart and sliding his fingertips between the cleft of his ass, spreading him, teasing at his opening. Bruce moaned and shimmied his legs apart, obscenely far, wrapping them around Tony shamelessly. Bruce was hoping he could have done something other than just plainly _beg_ for it, but he couldn't help himself, spiraling down the drain, soaked through with primal _need_.

Bruce was coming apart under his touch, shaking all over and Tony was starting to shake too, aching as Bruce pulled him down and bit him hard on the throat, before beginning to suck on his collarbone, licking and nipping at him alternately. Tony moaned breathily as Bruce reached for him and began to stroke him roughly.

"Bruce," he began, fighting to keep his train of thought as Bruce latched onto a nipple, teasing him with his tongue, "B-_Bruce_. How far" he broke off to groan, "do you want to go?" The mouth vanished from Tony's body and he groaned again at the loss, despite himself. Bruce shimmied up to meet Tony's eyes and he pressed against him, hands sliding against his hips, pleading at his spine for release. "Tony," and his voice was soft, reverent, "I want as much as you'll give. But you don't have to do this. You don't—" and Tony put his hand over his mouth, silencing the self-deprecating comment that was coming. "Stop it. There is nobody else I want, I haven't even" and his throat closed off before he could admit that he had stopped sleeping with others over a year ago, when Bruce first came into his life, when Tony realized how much he meant to him. He hadn't planned on saying that, ever.

Bruce's hand came up to trace his cheek, "You haven't even what, Tony?" Tony closed his eyes, swallowed, and leaned flush against Bruce before whispering against him "I haven't been with anyone in over a year." He could hear the lift of Bruce's mouth in his response, "Me neither." And then Bruce's hands were tugging on him, lifting him up to meet his eyes, and he saw an ocean of affection, trust, in them. "I want all of you Tony," and then, almost inaudible, "I need you inside of me" and Tony was slammed back into the situation, Bruce's fingers unstable and explosive against him like TNT. He reached for the table near his bed, scrabbling for the drawer, pulling it out violently, before he finally reached the lube.

He lifted a finger to Bruce's mouth, pressed it against his lips, and told him fiercely, "Suck". Bruce took the finger into his mouth hard, growling in his throat. Tony took the finger from Bruce's mouth and pressed it against his opening, teasing him, feeling the muscles twitch, before pressing into him up to the first knuckle. Bruce gasped and then moaned as Tony swirled his finger in him, stretching him. Tony removed the finger, lubed up the rest of his hand and pressed back into him, this time with two fingers, scissoring them. Bruce's eyes were closed, head thrown to the side, length weeping, writhing in the sheets.

Tony slung an arm over him to hold him down and pushed farther into him, pressing his fingers up, continuing to stretch him, until he pressed against the bundle of nerves he was looking for and Bruce thrashed against him, whimpering. "T-Tony I, I'm not, I'm going to, if you don't, I don't know how long, I, I, I" Tony pressed against the nerves again and Bruce's ability for speech dissolved, though he continued on, senselessly. "It's okay Bruce, if you do. It's okay. We can do it again." Tony's voice was soft, and he felt his heart shake in awe at the scientist, beautiful in the throes of passion, even covered in sweat, hair tangled, cheeks flushed. Tony needed to unwind him all the way. Tony could feel the muscles inside Bruce quivering as he thrust down on his fingers and Tony decided that meant he was ready. He pulled the fingers out and pressed Bruce's legs open further, ghosting his fingers over Bruce's inner thighs and up his length again, which was swollen and weeping with abandon. Then he poured lube into his hands and coated himself with it before lining up against Bruce and slowly starting to slide in.

He moved at a glacial pace, biting hard on his lip to stop himself from thrusting up before Bruce could adjust. When he was fully seated in him, Tony realized he had bitten his lip so hard he tasted blood, moaning low in his throat, so turned on by the grasping heat surrounding him it _hurt_. His arms were shaking as he held himself still, waiting for some sign from Bruce that he could move. "Tony," Bruce's voice was broken with want, and Tony shifted just the tiniest bit, trying to get a better position before actually thrusting into him and Bruce _lost _it, hands clenched on his hips, arching his back so forcefully Tony had a brief flash of panic that he had awoken the Other Guy. Bruce let out a stifled scream through his clenched jaw as come shot out against Tony's stomach, muscles spasming around the man buried in him, thrusting up as he rode out the force of his orgasm. Tony was still holding his wrists, watching him with dark eyes, painfully hard inside of Bruce as he clamped down on him savagely.

As thought returned to him, all Bruce could do was berate himself. _You teenager, what is the matter with you, how could you have come so easily, he hardly even touched you, you fucking girl. _His cheeks flushed red with humiliation until he caught the look on Tony's face, who was staring at him unashamedly, pupils Jupiter-huge and speckled with stars, burning him with desire. Tony brushed against his cheeks, which were suffused with blood, "Bruce. You're beautiful. Fucking amazing," and the fingertip-light touch brushed higher against his zygomatic arches, fluttered against the fan of his lashes, his eyelids. He could _feel _what Tony felt for him, burning into him like the sun. Bruce could feel it past the abyss in his chest and it was incinerating him. He had just come, but he was still half hard.

"_Tony_," Bruce moaned. Apparently the only speech he was capable of anymore was moaning, muscles twitching, overloaded, in Tony's hands. Tony felt a flower of happiness—_happiness,_ not pride—bloom in his chest at that. Tony's voice was just as broken as Bruce's, "I'm going to, I have to" Tony could hardly even think anymore past the need to _thrust_ against Bruce, in Bruce, whose overheated skin was burning, flush against him. Now he was the one dissolving and when Bruce murmured into his neck, Tony lost it and jerked forward into him. Tony moaned as he lost control, thrusting in a broken rhythm and Bruce moaned against him too, fully erect again. Bruce wrapped his legs around Tony's waist, shifting his hips up, and when Tony thrust again, deeper into him, he hit his already abused nerves, and Bruce bit down on Tony's shoulder. He whined against Bruce's throat, stuttering, "I-I'm not going to," his voice rushing out of his lungs like they'd been punctured, "last…very…long." They found a rhythm, Tony slamming against Bruce's prostate with every thrust, merciless. Bruce's throat seemed to have stopped working—the only sound he could still make was a soft mewling, breath as ragged as Tony's, arms slack against the bed. Tony reached down to grip Bruce and with soft tugs, aligned with his thrusts, they both came at the same time, breathless, mute, incapable of even saying each other's names.

They stared into each other's eyes instead, and what they weren't saying was as tangible as their sweat, pooling between them. As he came Tony's muscles abruptly gave out on him and he collapsed on top of Bruce, still inside him, jerking as he rode through the blinding flare of release, morphine-sweet in his veins. He was shaking, overwhelmed by what had happened in the past 12 or so hours. _You go ahead and act like you didn't just fuck him when he was still fucked up. You just go right ahead and act like you aren't hiding from something, like neither of you are hiding from anything. _He finally pulled out and moved over, flopping onto his back, so close to Bruce their sides were flush against each other. He found Bruce's hand, held onto it like he was drowning, and stared up at the ceiling, hoping an answer would come tumbling out of it like a far seeing oracle in the stars.


	3. Maybe

**A/N** **Hey kids. Alas, an update. You all make me happy, just fyi. Aaand reviews make me happiest! Haha.** **If there are any weird typos, sorry, apparently I now only write in the middle of the night and editing only does so much.** **Oh, oh, also, this switches POV briefly to Bruce's in the second bracket. Hopefully that is clear though, or else I'm really terrible.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine, like always.**

**Warnings: Um. Language? Naked men in the shower, fluffy leopard print blankets. Not really much in this chapter.**

….

They lay there for so long the come and sweat, covering both of their stomachs, had dried before either spoke. Bruce finally broke the silence, "We should get cleaned up," voice rough and quiet. Tony didn't look over at Bruce, didn't move at all, "We should talk about the roof."

Tony felt the muscles that were flush against him tighten as Bruce lapsed into his customary stillness, like he hoped Tony would forget he was there. But now Tony knew what Bruce sounded like moaning his name, what he looked like when he came, he knew what it felt like to be _in _him—he couldn't forget that he had found him about to swallow a bullet.

"I need to shower first Tony," his voice was unyielding as Bruce managed to lever himself up off the bed and walked into the bathroom unsteadily. Tony stared as his back disappeared into his bathroom, listened to the water start running—which was impressive actually, considering how complicated the mechanism was until you knew how to work it.

….

He had sex with Tony Stark. First, he went overboard with the pills and apparently did something stupid with a gun. He didn't even remember it, only the feeling of awe as he opened his eyes, saw Tony, and became convinced somehow that he hadn't expected to see him again. And then he just…_launched _himself at Tony, his colleague, his ostentatiously straight colleague. He hadn't even been with anyone since the accident—hadn't even known that was an option, let alone with a _man_.

_Great. Just great. Fantastic decision making Banner_. What was he even doing? Was he gay? What about the Other Guy? And what about Tony? Tony had kissed him…Was _he _gay? Fucking hell, maybe everyone was gay.

Too much had happened in too short a time. Bruce's thoughts were fragmented, spinning, as he stumbled into the bathroom, body feverish and aching. He purposefully avoided looking in the mirror—he didn't want to see his face or his body—and almost cracked both open as he tripped over the lip into the shower and crashed inside.

In typical Stark fashion, the shower was almost too complicated for Bruce to figure out. There were multiple showerheads sunk into black marble and after finding absolutely no way to turn them on inside, Bruce poked his head outside, where he located a panel with buttons on it. He started stabbing at them, going down the rows, before the jets finally turned on. Shortly after a temperature gauge appeared on the screen of the panel, glowing softly blue, and Bruce managed to scroll up and down until the water was at an acceptable temperature. After that he simply stood under the water as steam condensed on the glass, lost in thought.

What had happened wasn't a good thing, Bruce knew that. Or, at least, he was pretty sure it wasn't a good thing, regardless of how badly he had wanted, needed, it to happen. It couldn't be healthy. _He _wasn't healthy. Tony wasn't healthy, even though Bruce was probably one of the only ones who knew that. Bruce knew what Tony looked like, blackout drunk, mumbling incoherently, tears running down his face. They couldn't be together, that much was obvious. They were too broken. But how did he fight down the tide of need, surging up through his ventricles, threatening to choke him? All Bruce was really sure of was that he was tired of being alone, and so was Tony.

…..

Tony shook his head and then stood up, picked the leopard blanket off the floor, refolded it and stuffed it back into the closet, holding it away from his body. Then he stripped off his duvet and pulled out a new one from the closet, going through motions that used to be far more familiar, tossing the dirty duvet cover into the laundry. Having rendered his bed habitable once more, Tony squared his shoulders and went into the bathroom.

The bathroom was large and opulent, per Tony's style, gleaming black marble on the countertops and on the floor. There were shaggy white bathmats in front of the shower, the sink, the sunken in jacuzzi tub, and the toilet. There was a shimmering lacquered black cabinet that held extra toiletries and excess fluffy black towels. Tony stopped as he caught sight of Bruce in the shower, his form vague through the fogged up glass. Then he realized it was probably a little late to be shy and slid the door open, blinking in the steam that billowed out from inside. He stepped into the shower and shut the door behind him.

Bruce didn't turn, even as cold air hit him and as Tony stared at his frozen form, taking in the bite marks on his neck, the hand shaped bruises wrapping his hips, he realized this was the hard part. He drank in Bruce's wet hair, streaming over his shoulders, his whole form caressed by water, awed, before he stepped up to the scientist and traced a line down his spine. Instead of jumping like Tony expected him to, Bruce turned into his touch calmly, leveling him with dark eyes, and let Tony push him against the marble wall without protest.

"Bruce," Tony pinned the scientist between his arms, voice muted under the rush of the water. "Tell me what's wrong."

Bruce's eyes met his in a steady, quiet gaze before he closed his eyes. "Tony, what are you doing?"

"Asking you what's wrong, obviously." Tony breathed, coffee eyes glowing with threads of copper, pupils dilated.

Tony couldn't believe how _much_ he wanted Bruce. Mingled with Tony's need to figure out what was wrong with him—the most beautiful puzzle—and his emotions were overwhelming. Bruce, however, didn't look like _he _was suffering from any overwhelming feelings, standing in the cage of Tony's arms, looking like he may have fallen asleep, until he finally spoke.

"I can't, Tony. I just," his throat made a strangling sound, "can't." Tony traced under his eyes with a finger. He paused and then softly asked, "Have you actually washed up yet?"

Bruce shook his head and Tony nodded before pushing Bruce down onto a ledge in the shower and grabbing the shampoo. He washed both of their hair, having to focus on not lingering too long on running his hands through Bruce's, and then made Bruce stand up and lathered him, washing him off while Bruce stared at him blankly, seemingly past feeling self-conscious in any capacity.

_What am I going to do with you? How have you made it so far if this is what you're like when I'm not around? _Tony asked himself, sighing. Suddenly Bruce broke their silence, words rushing out of him as though he hadn't meant to say anything. "Are you gay Tony?" His voice dropped, "Am…am I?"

Tony felt his limbs still with shock and he looked up, surprisingly, into Bruce's eyes, intent on his. "_That's _the part you want to talk about? _Seriously?_" He paused. "Um, I don't know. I don't think so, I definitely like women," his voice dropped, "I definitely like you." He paused. "Does this matter?"

Bruce's eyes on his never faltered. "I guess not," he replied before he grabbed the sponge out of Tony's grasp and began lathering up Tony in return, washing his come off of him. Tony stood still and watched him through darkening eyes as the scientist's hands slipped over him reverently. When they were both thoroughly clean and the hot water began to run out Tony switched off the water and went to get towels for them. He pulled out three of the black ones, beach towel sized. When he stepped back into the cooling shower though, he found Bruce curled on the floor with his head resting on his knees. Tony's heart lurched. He wrapped a towel around his waist and then sat next to Bruce, holding the other two towels.

After a while Bruce murmured into his knees, "I keep waiting for you to leave." Tony turned to stare at him, "Why? Why would I do that? Haven't I made it plenty clear how I feel about you?" He paused, and then added, "Besides, you're in _my_ bathroom." Bruce turned and affixed him with one eye that was glittering with faint amusement. "Can I have one of those? I'm freezing" Bruce eyed the towels in Tony's lap and shivered lightly. Tony wrapped one around his shoulders and rubbed him vigorously before wrapping the other around the back of his hips. Bruce squirmed around and got the towel secured around his waist before turning to Tony and whispering, "Thank you."

They sat there in silence. It was strange how protracted their movements were. Their silences weren't awkward even though it was clear neither knew what to say. Finally Tony spoke, voice rough, "Bruce. Tell me I won't find you on the roof with a gun again. I need you to tell me you won't take those fucking pills anymore." He felt his voice shake, "I need you to tell me that. Even if you don't…you know. Even if this was just a one time thing or whatever I just" he stopped himself, realizing he sounded like an idiot. _Great job Stark, you have officially turned into a weak-ass pansy. No really, continue with thine emo bullshit. _

Bruce turned to him and Tony realized that somehow they had drifted so close together that Bruce was practically in his lap. "Tony. I didn't even know…" he swallowed, "that you cared. Not like _that_…not like this. I'm trying. It just. I don't have any answers. I'm not even sure what happened." He paused, expression pensive, and Tony wondered if maybe he hadn't tried to sort out what was wrong inside of him before. Maybe Bruce had gotten so used to repressing The Other Guy he had shoved the depression down too, letting it fester, until it had weakened him, crawled into his limbs, taken him hostage and attempted to throw him off the edge of the cliff.

"I'm not used to talking to anyone. Not after...what happened. It seemed easier for me to disappear. For everyone." He finished speaking and managed to look at Tony, his expression as open as Tony had ever seen. He had never fully grasped how thoroughly, how _much_, Bruce had managed to hide from him, from everyone.

"Well you know how I feel. You know that whatever you want to say I want to hear. How," he swallowed noisily, "do you feel?"

Bruce's face broke into a lopsided grin, "Did Tony Stark actually just ask someone how they felt? That has to be a first." Tony frowned at him in mock-irritation.

Bruce's smile only grew as he brushed his hand up Tony's neck. "Tony. After what I've been through, what we did…was a big deal. It's been a long time since I've been with someone. I wouldn't" he broke off, face flushing, "I'm not exactly a one night stand person."

Tony grinned in return, "Good. I only want you to make those noises for me."

Bruce flushed even brighter, "_Tony_." Tony laughed, trilling and pure, and then reached out to Bruce and bundled the slightly smaller man into his lap. Bruce leaned against him stiffly at first before relaxing into his chest. He reached out idly and began to trace the glow of the arc reactor faintly. Bruce continued, his ministrations sending sparks of pleasure through Tony's chest.

Somebody probably would have told Tony that Bruce couldn't touch him, considering the potential for a Hulk-out moment to rip the reactor from his chest. Somebody would have forbidden it, but nobody expected Tony to _want _Bruce to touch him like this; it had even caught Tony by surprise. Nobody realized what it felt like to have someone so close to something that could kill him. Nobody knew Tony was actually self-conscious of the glowing metal plug in his chest. Well, self-conscious for him. Bruce didn't think the metal was ugly though, obviously, and Tony found that mattered to him far more than he expected it to.

_Maybe we can do this. _


	4. Rain Like Acid

**Hey kids! Firstly, my apologies: 1 This chapter took forever and a half to write, and felt like someone was slowly pulling my teeth out the whole damn time, 2 It had the discourtesy to come out super gross regardless and 3 I feel like, especially in this chapter, I am wandering deeply into OOC-land with our poor Dr. Banner. I honestly did not mean to do this. I wanted to write as close as I could to the movie-verse. However, my main theme for this story is depression, and I've seen depression turn people into vicious husks of who they used to be. Which probably explains how this got away from me. I will try and reign it back in, but I guess I can't make any promises. I can only ask that y'all refrain from being super mad at me haha. **

**Also, I would love to thank my lovely reviewers, particularly lunaretinue and TheDreamerLady, who has dutifully reviewed every chapter **_**and**_** reminded me that oh yah, other Avengers actually do exist. I am quite fond of you all, for srs. **

**PS I know nothing about comic books, so if the Iron Man suits aren't actually called Mark _ ****I googled it okay.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine kids. **

**Warnings: Language, which should be a given, general angst and mildly inexplicable fits of rage. Of which this chapter made me suffer from as well, along with Tony and Bruce.**

* * *

Monday December 12th, two days after The-Roof-And-Consequent-Freak-Out-Sex incident had dawned frantic and apocalyptic. The innocent looking peach sunrise ended up dragging all of the Avengers back into play. The team was summoned to handle a "small" threat of possible nuclear attack on Los Angeles by the Russians, which found them on a jet, Tony rolling his eyes, muttering "Haven't we already _done _this?" Tony found himself separated from Bruce somehow on the flight, and then during containment of the issue and then during the plane ride home and _again_ during the press conference afterward.

After the press conference Tony disappeared into his lab for three days, working obsessively on some of the information they had managed to take from the Russians before thoroughly crushing their operation in LA. It took until Saturday for Tony to go looking for Bruce, wanting to share his insights. Even so it wasn't until Tony had gone barging into his room in the Stark Tower, bursting with information and demanding answers for the latter's absence, that he saw the un-slept in bed, empty closet, and realized Bruce was avoiding him. Which should have been obvious before that point, Tony realized, blood beginning to boil. _What the fuck. _

Tony had a feeling Bruce's disappearance had less to do with not actually wanting to be with him and more with Bruce mistakenly thinking Tony had only wanted him as some kind of toy for a weekend.

He had no idea where Bruce was. _And how can you have lived with him for so long and still not know where he goes when he's upset?_ He did, however, have a feeling he knew who could find him. _Actually…_

* * *

It took him forty-five minutes to get to a certain decrepit gym in Brooklyn, with an equally decrepit apartment on top of it. He double-parked in the alley running down its side, having decided to drive himself. He didn't really need witnesses to this. Tony got out of the car, locked it, and proceeded to almost knock down the door to Steve Roger's said decrepit apartment, after moodily scaling the stairs. A light rain had picked up, steadily tapping against Tony, making his mood even worse.

When Steve opened the door to Tony's frenzied pounding he was garbed in well-worn workout clothes and looked alarmed. Which was understandable, considering. Tony didn't even wait for him to say anything other than "Tony, what…" before barreling past him into the apartment.

"Where's Banner?" He turned and faced The Captain, arms crossed over his chest.

Steve's eyes widened and then quickly narrowed "I uh. Don't know what you're talking about. And even if I did I'm pretty sure it's none of your business."

Tony fixed him with a level look. "Oh really? Don't even give me that shit _Steve,_" he felt his lips peel back in a sneer and really, where was this blatant fury coming from in him? It was irrational. _Control yourself Stark. _

But for some reason—maybe stress, maybe the all-consuming fear that seeped into his veins when he thought of someone who couldn't tell Bruce had a shadow living in him, who wouldn't know better than leaving him to his own devices, maybe the fact that Bruce was _hiding_ from _him_—he couldn't. He couldn't control himself, and he tore into Steve, his only idea on where Bruce could have gone, with blind fury.

"I know you two are friends. I know you both share some sort of weird disconnect with society in a But-I-Still-Care-About-Them sort of way. And knowing this means I know he is here. And, if by some miracle he isn't, you know where he is."

He had just launched forward and fisted his hands in Captain America's shirt—steadfastly ignoring the fact that the other man had considerable height and muscle on him—when a voice interrupted them.

"Stark, let him go."

Tony dropped his hands from Steve and turned to face the voice, moving deliberately, filled with the detached calm that always flooded him when he had to throw up a front, pretend like he was okay when he wasn't.

Bruce looked good. He was impeccably dressed, wearing light gray sharkskin pants, woven with silk and vicuna fibers by an ancient Italian weaver Tony employed, an aubergine dress shirt, unbuttoned at the neck and fastened at the wrists with jet cuff links, and black leather dress shoes. His dark hair was actually held in place and he was clean-shaven, his jaw angular. _He's lost weight _Tony realized belatedly, before meeting Bruce's eyes and stopping cold. His eyes were lightless, darker than Tony had ever seen before, irises swallowing pupils into a solid pool of pitch black.

And Bruce was staring at Tony with a detached iciness that bordered on hatred.

The look was so foreign on his usually worried, chagrined features that Tony felt his breath still in his lungs. _What the fuck is going on here? _

"Dr. Banner. Can I have a word?" Somehow Tony's voice managed to sound together, strong. Like Tony wasn't being eaten up by watching the man in front of him disappear into an alien cruelty. Like this situation made any damn sense at all.

"No. You should leave." His voice was devoid of all emotion except anger, smoldering low in his voice. Bruce turned from them and glided back through the doorway from which he had appeared. Tony stared at the empty doorway in shock and then began to stalk after him, only to be stopped by Captain America, who evidently felt the need to go all captain-y at the moment. His expression was stern and he had been following Tony and Bruce's exchange with an increasing expression of confusion.

"Tony. I don't know _what _you did to him to make him so mad, but you need to leave _now_. I am not going to let you continue to needlessly—" Steve Roger's face was flushed with what looked like righteous indignation and Tony figured now would be a good time for his backup plan.

He jumped away from Steve's arm, pressed a button on one of the bracelets at his wrists and flung out his arms as Mark 7 came crashing through the gym's front door and coalesced around him. He had shortened the time it took for the suit to attach to him, which gave him plenty of time to get suited before Steve had even reacted. As his face mask flipped down he growled at Steve "No time for your pure heart right now _Captain_," reached out and tossed him out of his way.

Then he ran through the door into the other part of the apartment, which turned out to be the bedroom, and had a second to relish the flash of surprise that cracked through the mask of hate on Bruce's face. It disappeared rapidly as Tony bodily lifted him from the ground, turned, and launched them both out of the ruined front door of the apartment, past the apoplectic visage of Captain America.

_There will be hell to pay for this later. _

* * *

They landed on the roof of the Stark Tower approximately five minutes later, in what had rapidly become a deluge of unfortunate proportions. As he touched down on the roof, Bruce still huddled against his iron chest, Tony moved to the walkway to remove the suit and get them inside. As soon as his feet hit the ground though, Bruce shoved hard against Iron Man's chest. The force of the shove didn't move Tony at all and only served to propel Bruce backwards. He skittered against the soaking metal pavillion, scrambling away from Tony.

Tony stared at him in frustration as Bruce got to his feet and rounded on him. Tony was unnerved by their encounter, but it wasn't like they could talk out in the pounding rain and howling wind, so he stepped into the covered walkway and was promptly devested of the suit. It was quiet in the tube, thick plexiglass muting the violence of the weather. They were activated when there was unusual weather in the area—it wouldn't to do have his machines _rust_.

He stopped and turned, expecting to have to go back outside and force Bruce to come in and talk to him. Before Tony had fully turned and registered that this was not the case, Bruce was on him, hands in his shirt, slamming him against the glass with a loud crack, snarling in his face.

Bruce's hair was plastered to his scalp, his shirt to his chest, collarbones gleaming wetly. His eyes were still obsidian, pupils undistinguishable in their depths. He was snarling low in his throat as he slammed Tony back into the wall again. Tony felt his head snap against the glass, which threw haloes over everything in his vision. After a moment the world managed to refocus around them, though he still felt dazed. Rage kindled in his chest abruptly and he kicked out at one of Bruce's knees, which drove him back clear into the opposite wall of the tube, though he didn't make any noise of pain.

"WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?" He bellowed, voice hoarse with rage.

Bruce seemed to have decided to cease his attack. His eyes flashed before he answered. "I am not some dog you can summon Tony." The lack of inflection in Bruce's voice was as alien as the rest of his demeanor.

_Who the fuck is this? _

"I have _no _IDEA what you are talking about Bruce. You were _ignoring_ me!" Tony was beginning to feel lightheaded. _Maybe I'm dreaming. _

"I was WORRIED about you, you fucking idiot. I thought we could _talk_ or some shit, and you're MAD about that?" Tony's voice was weakening.

Bruce was suddenly back in his face—_How is he moving so quickly?_—"Right," his voice was whisper soft now.

"I'm so sorry I couldn't be around for you to use as some pitiful fuck toy to play hero to. So sorry. Maybe one day you'll forgive _me," _he punctuated his words with shoves against the wall,_ "_for using _you" _and on his last word Bruce's eyes flashed terrible, boiling green, and he abruptly shoved Tony _through _the supposedly-indestructible glass. The wall exploding against and around Tony in a powdery spray of glitter and diamond dust he did not have time to appreciate as he was whipped onto the metal pavilion by Bruce, green muscles ripping out of the doctor's body.

Tony stared in horror as The Hulk rounded on him, no sense of anything but fey rage in his features as he tore off the metal railing and swung it at the ground where Tony lay. He managed to roll out of the way and retreated to the glass windows of the penthouse. He stared in disbelief as The Hulk failed to track his moments in any way and simply turned, smashed through the rest of the plexiglass tube and then stepped off the tower.

A second later a ripping howl of bloodlust came from over the side that rattled Tony to his skeleton. He sagged to the floor, the rain biting into him like it was made of pure acid.

* * *

Anger.

It was a simple concept really.

You don't like something, it makes you angry. Maybe it's something that feels big—maybe one of your friends, someone you thought caredabout you, gets with someone you are with. You think, _this isn't right_. This situation is unjust; I deserve better. Maybe someone hurts your family, someone you care about, someone good and noble and irreplaceable.

You get angry.

Maybe it's something small—a customer is rude to you at work and you can't say anything or it will reflect poorly on you, your coworkers, your manager, your whole store.

It makes you angry. But you have to hold it in and smile while a sea of something viscous bubbles in your core.

People get angry every day, over things that matter and things that shouldn't matter but still set thousands of tiny little fires that are enough to make a person's neck prickle.

Tiny little fires of injustice to slowly consume all of humanity every day.

The fire that raged in The Hulk's veins was on such a grander magnitude the difference was that of the fire and pressure forging helium and spitting out lazy ultraviolet waves from the intestines of the sun to the ghost of fire sparking in the heart of an alkaline battery. There was no comparison that would not be laughable. The rage was so blistering and white inside The Hulk's skull that no other thought existed. There was nothing else. The pressure of that one thought, one reality, made him writhe.

The Hulk needed to destroy, needed to get it out of him, even if he had to pull out his veins by hand to do so. And he would take as many with him as he could, sating the fire in him with blood.


	5. Damages

**Okay everyone. I know last chapter wasn't all unicorns and glitter, but **_**kids **_**please, PLEASE, for my sanity, more than two reviews on this chapter. Like, for real please. Even if you don't like it, or don't like me, or want to correct my grammar or use all symbols, I want to hear from you! Or…read from you. That being said, Dapperpuppet and TheDreamerLady are why I'm haven't stroked out yet, which is good because that would be hard to explain. **

**Disclaimer: Not mine! I am sure the Avengers franchise would be drastically less popular if I owned it. **

**Warnings: A directionally challenged person trying to use cardinal directions in everyday life, an American using Google translate because she doesn't speak Icelandic, and grown men hiding from their problems. **

…

Tony was still sitting on the roof when the sun rose. He was soaked to the point of molecular no return, sitting in what had become a veritable lake, water pooling around him and in the dents in the metal. It was easy to think his cells were hypotonic and about to burst, acid rain awash in his veins, seeping in through great holes burned into his skin.

He was still sitting there, staring blind and unblinking into the sun, when Pepper found him.

She delicately stepped out onto the roof, and picked her way around pools of water that glittered in the sun, choked with shards of glass. Her heels clicked reassuringly as she made her way toward him. Tony didn't look at her even when she kneeled next to him, right on the ground. He knew she was worried by the way she didn't care that she had kneeled right into a puddle, soaking her skirt, probably ruining it. Her voice floated to him, light and sharp like the sun.

"Tony?" Her hands on his arm, jostling him. "Tony, what happened?" Harder jostling now, "Tony. Tony, answer me."

Somehow he managed to move his head and he turned to look at her. He opened his mouth, maybe to actually try and answer her, but no words came to him. Instead, his mind flooded with images. Bruce in the lab, sleepy and tousled, hair sticking up in seven different directions. Bruce, asking if Tony was _sure_ for about the hundredth time when Tony told him to stay at the tower. Bruce, voice cracking as he told them all they couldn't kill him, he would know. Bruce, fucked up on drugs, holding a gun. Bruce, fucked out and blushing, stretched under him. Bruce, shoving him through a wall, nothing but hate in his eyes.

No words came to him through the torrent of images that he wanted to communicate. He couldn't get it out, couldn't tell Pepper what had happened—beautiful, decent, strong _Pepper_—how he had fucked up.

The words came out without cerebral direction. "I need a drink."

His eyes focused on Pepper then, and he watched the small facial muscles shift her expression into a frown, eyebrows crinkling. "I don't think that's a good idea, Tony. Fury is in the kitchen, saying something about damages? You need to tell me what happened. And the media is going crazy about The Hu—"

Tony didn't want to have this conversation, didn't want to have _any _conversation. Let alone with Fury, let alone about stupid Captain fucking America's doorway. And for damn sure not about _Bruce_. Ice crawled down his spine.

_Pompous asshole, of _course _he ratted me out to daddy. _

"Pepper. Shut up." He lurched to his feet, wobbling, splashing through puddles, wind sliding fingers through his hair and clothes, whipping water off of him. He stumbled in the sun and half fell off the roof. He didn't press the bracelets until he was in free fall and he heard Pepper scream, shrill and terrible, before he was jolted out of the air by his suit.

"That wasn't very nice." Jarvis sounded disapproving.

"Shut up Jarvis." He shut his eyes and angled his flight north.

….

When Bruce opened his eyes, his first thought was of salt.

_Why do I taste salt? _

Shortly after, splintering pain of headache and thirst ended his immediate thoughts. He forced himself to sit up, the movements ponderous, uncoordinated. Bruce found himself on a beach, naked and sandy, his collarbones and shoulders dusted with salt, his calves stuck fast in oceanic silt.

_Low tide_.

He stared at a peach starfish, stuck in the silt near his legs, and wondered if it felt as dehydrated as he did. He ran his hands through his hair, which had tangled itself into a huge knot and sighed.

_Might as well get it over with_. He stood up and headed for the foliage at the edge of the beach. Hopefully he would find someone willing to clothe him and possibly give him a shower.

He scrabbled up the rocks, his feet burning. There was salt embedded in multiple shallow cuts that ran up and down his body, setting licks of fire through him. He stumbled through some bushes and found himself standing on a well-manicured lawn.

_Oh crap, please, please, PLEASE, don't let there be any kids in this house. _

Before he got any closer though, a man holding a weed trimmer came around the corner, wearing an ancient looking pair of faded blue overalls. He was shirtless and shod in big green rubber boots, humming under his breath. He took one look at Bruce, standing stock-still, covering himself, face flushed with embarrassment and abruptly stopped humming.

"Um. Sir? Are you okay over there?" He had a soft southern accent.

"Well. Actually, I could use some clothes. I kind of had a…mishap."

The man raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment.

"Okay. Well…I guess. Why don't you follow me sir, and I'll see what I can do."

Bruce followed the man into a garage where he was instructed to wait. He only stood there for a minute or two until the man reappeared holding a stack of clothes and a paper bag. He extracted a towel from the pile and handed it to Bruce.

"From my wife," he smiled softly as Bruce wrapped the towel around his waist. The man gestured to the rest of the pile but held on to it still.

"Thank you so much, I really appreciate it."

"It's no problem, doctor." The man's eyes widened as he realized what he had said and he swallowed.

Bruce felt his eyebrows arch upward. "You know who I am?"

He nodded sheepishly. "We saw what you did when New York was attacked. You saved a lot of people."

Bruce felt his face heat. _I've hurt a lot of people too. _

"My wife has made it clear you are not to leave until you've had a hot shower," he looked even more chagrined as he herded Bruce inside. Bruce clutched the towel and the man led him through the house.

"Who do I have to thank for the kindness?" Bruce asked.

"I'm John. My wife is Beth. If you need anything else just let us know, shampoo and everything is in the shower."

John ushered him into a small, clean, tan and white bathroom and then shut the door behind him after putting the clothes and the bag on vanity. Bruce rushed into the shower and turned the water on hot, not even waiting for it to actually warm up before beginning to scrub at his hair frantically. He moved mechanically under the water, trying not to think, _determined_ not to think. Sometimes will isn't enough though, as well he knew.

Against his best efforts the memory of Tony's hands sliding over his body came back to him violently. He doubled over, hands against his stomach. He felt like something had broken in him as he pictured the light in Tony's eyes as he pinned him on the mattress, pressed up against him in the shower.

_What have I done? _

The stack held clothes that were all washer soft, well worn and faded. There was a pair of grey boxers, light blue cords, faded almost white, an equally soft white t-shirt, socks, and a pair of converse.

Bruce felt the edge of his mouth lift as he dried off and changed. The clothes were all low key. He opened the paper bag and found an apple, a peanut butter sandwich and two chocolate chip cookies. At the bottom of the whole pile was a map. He slid into the clothes quickly and bit into the apple as he opened the map. Apparently he had made it all the way to South Carolina. Bruce lifted his eyebrows.

_That is impressive._

Fully clothed and clean he wandered downstairs, and said a hasty goodbye to John and Beth, before walking off the grounds of the house. He headed for the nearest road.

He consulted the map again and swallowed against the tugging in his stomach, the whisper of _Go back_ _to New York_, rushing in his throat. He thought of Tony, what he had done and felt his chest tighten.

_You are a monster._

He folded the map, put it in his pocket, and turned his steps south.

….

Pepper was having unkind thoughts about Director Fury.

It wasn't his fault, not really, that when he flew into a murderous rage—like he currently had—that his good eye bulged enough it made Pepper wonder if it might pop out. Pepper knew that she had some less than attractive expressions when Tony made her that mad. She probably shouldn't judge, but it was hard not to.

She wasn't particularly fond of Director Fury, but she renewed her effort to listen to his seemingly endless tirade on both the reckless and narcissistic behaviors of Tony Stark.

"First he effectively kidnaps Dr. Banner and destroys part of Captain America's residence. Then shortly after who reappears but the Hulk, who proceeds to CAUSE MILLIONS OF DOLLARS IN DAMAGE TO THE LOWER EAST SIDE BEFORE LEAVING THE CITY, TRAILING DESTRUCTION IN HIS WAKE and NOW nobody even knows where _EITHER OF THEM _has GONE."

Fury slammed his fists onto the table in front of Pepper. His face was an unhealthy shade of purple as he stared at her, evidently waiting for a response.

She cleared her throat. "Director, maybe you should take a seat." She watched as a vein in his temple pulsed and looked up at him with steel in her eyes.

"I don't know where Tony has gone, or Bruce for that matter, but considering neither of us has the full story, I think it would be best if you calmed down some and stayed out of it."

Fury's chest heaved once and then stilled as he straightened and flipped his phone open, whatever number he called clearly on speed dial. He stared right at Pepper as he growled into the phone, "Find Banner. I don't care what it takes." He paused for a moment and then sneered, "If you don't think you're up to the task, feel free to turn in your weapons. I can think of at least one other…_person_, who is more than capable of handling him."

In less than 10 seconds he was clearly on another call. "Iron Man. Bring him in. You know the drill."

He hung up and then grinned at Pepper, wide and disturbing, teeth too white.

"Thank you for all of your advice Ms. Potts. I'll be in touch."

Pepper's eyes widened as the man turned and began to stride away. "Wait. Director. Who was that? What are you doing?"

"I'm calming down."

Pepper had a feeling her dislike of Director Fury was mutual.

…..

Tony flew until Jarvis overrode his complaints and grounded him.

He watched the rocky, volcanic landscape rush to meet him as it resolved into a grid of streets. He angled toward a strip of neon, which he hoped was downtown and landed in a park of some type in a residential block not too far from the bright lights. The park had sprouted up amongst sparse grass and some type of prolific fern. He watched the delicate fronds wave in the wind as he thought. The park was deserted at the late hour.

"Jarvis. Where am I?"

"Iceland. About 10 miles west of Grindavik, to be specific."

"Oh…" _What the fuck is in Iceland? Hmm. _

"Is there a bar nearby?"

"I believe they are actually referred to as pubs here."

Tony snorted. "Jarvis, time for travel mode."

He pressed another button and then started walking. He entered the first bar he came to, dry now and looking not too worse for the wear in his t-shirt and jeans, hair rumpled and in distinct contrast to the shiny suitcase he was carrying.

He sat down at the bar, and eyed the bartender. He was of medium height and wearing dark jeans, a dark t-shirt, and had wavy dark hair that was curling into his eyes from the heat inside. His eyes were coffee-dark, his smile timid for being in such a raucous environment.

Tony swallowed.

_Fuck. Of course. Of course he has an Icelandic doppelg__ä__nger. Who the fuck doesn't. _

The bartender smiled at him, and asked in a mellow voice, "Hvað get ég fengið að?"

His voice cracked, "Vodka."

…

**Okay kids, time for a poll of sorts. Who do you think should be sent after our boys? I have people in mind, but I'm open to suggestions! **

**Also: to all the Icelandic kids, if I inadvertently said something ridiculous and/or offensive, please forgive me. **


	6. A Good Thing

**A/N: Can we all celebrate that I got to write 'prolific fern' last chapter? Say it. Say prolific fern.**

**This will be long, sorry. THANK YOU SO MUCH TO EVERYONE WHO REVIEWED. I know I asked y'all too, but seriously thank you. I should probably be calmer, but I'm one of Those People who, as soon as the feedback diminishes, I'm like "Everyone hates me and I suck." It isn't logical, but there it is. Also, I really liked seeing the different ideas of who should fetch whom. I wanted to send Thor after everyone as well haha. **

**I don't know how many of you are science kids, but I am. So please know that when I mention NMR and then molecular nitrogen, I know NMR is usually used for organic compounds. I needed an analogy and nitrogen has a freakishly strong bond, so I went with that. Idek if it has spin. **

**Other things I don't know: practically anything about the south, or highway 95, or Iceland. I don't know much, in all honesty. I Googled stuff, but I would be eternally grateful for either polite ignoring of my (inevitable) mistakes, or polite corrections haha. **

**Say hi to the hurricane of angst, board up your windows, it's probably going to get worse before it gets better. **

**Disclaimer: Not mine, don't worry. **

**Warnings: Language, verbose descriptions of intoxicated people, kind of a lot of vomiting (I know some people aren't okay with that, sorry, goes with the intoxication), some mentions of drugs and slight medical unethical...ness. Don't do drugs kids, they'll ruin your life.**

* * *

Bruce was hot. And lost, maybe.

And coming down with some rare form of malaria, probably.

Bruce was contemplating all three of these things when he tripped over a small clump of woody-stemmed weed that had thrust its way up through the asphalt lining highway 95. Considering the way his head had begun spinning, his limbs increasingly unruly and spastic, he was unsurprised when he managed to trip in a diagonal manner. Bruce went sprawling off the narrow shoulder into the dense foliage lining the highway with little more than a grunt, content to lay in the tall grass groaning.

He had wandered away from the beach on highway 26 and then hooked up to 95, heading south. His ultimate plan was to hide out in South America for a while.

_Yes, because that's going to work out well. You are full of great plans aren't you? Yes, yes you are. _He groaned again, feeling very stupid.

He figured he could use some time to get his head on straight, try and sort out the hurricane living in his chest. As he tried to get up though, his head spun and he doubled over, dry heaving. A vicious spasm ran through his intestines and he moaned, white light blinding him.

He was slowly being forced to come to terms with the fact that he was most likely _not_ coming down with a rare form of malaria. Though he wouldn't actually have been surprised, considering the amount of bug bites he was accumulating by wandering at a snail's pace down a densely forested highway in the south.

_Isn't it _winter? _Don't bugs die or hibernate or some shit? They should hibernate. It's only fair—part of the natural cycle and all that. _

His rambling thoughts cut off as his stomach abruptly roiled again, vicious enough to make Bruce fancy that it was trying to make a break for it, greater omentum be damned. He dry heaved again, bile scorching his already abused throat. He thought of the pill bottle he lost when he…lost control on the top of Stark Tower, and thumped his forehead against the ground.

_Face it Banner, you're going into withdrawal._

* * *

Natasha Romanoff was less than thrilled with her new assignment.

_What am I, his nanny? _

She ran a hand through her dark red curls and tried to not glare _too_ hard at the pilot. It was more than likely not his fault that Fury seemed to have forgotten that she was nobody's nanny.

It still might have been a little bit his fault though—she was remaining open-minded.

Natasha stretched out against the leather co-pilot's seat in the cockpit as the jet headed back toward the good ole US of A, settling in for a longish, hopefully smooth ride. She didn't even attempt to contain the feral smirk that turned up her mouth as she caught the way the pilot attempted to not stare at her legs, covered in her close fitting armor.

"Uh, ma'am. It might be better if you didn't put your…feet, that close to the controls."

She turned to look at him, expression blank and the man broke off, flushing.

She narrowed her eyes—it probably _was _his fault after all.

* * *

Tony was drunk.

He was drunk enough that he had passed the fun-drunk stage and had entered into the not-so-fun drunk stage.

In fact, shortly after he had reached said not-so-fun drunk stage, non-Bruce had tried to cut him off. He thought this was unfair, considering the bar was essentially a 24-hour establishment and how long did nights last in the winter in Iceland anyway?

Tony thought he had effectively handled the situation by hopping the bar, where he proceeded to smash only a couple of _little _bottles, really. And where he may or may not have taken the liberty of groping non-Bruce.

His feelings about handling the situation had vanished rather rapidly, however, as he was rushed by some very enthusiastic Icelandic men the size of small houses. With no-nonsense expressions lining their mouths, they collectively picked him up and deposited him outside, suitcase thrown after him. He stared dumbly as the suitcase—_suitcases?—_got larger in his vision and then slammed into his stomach, leveling him into the dirt with a small _oomph_.

He lay there, right in the doorway where said angry men who had thrown him out could have stepped on him, too drunk to do anything other than stare at the constellations pin-wheeling around him. Fire erupted across the sky, flashing turquoises and purples and Tony vaguely thought he saw a chariot up there. None of what he was seeing caused any emotion except vague curiosity.

_Have there always been so many stars? _

"Jarvis." Tony managed to slur into the night, past remembering that he wasn't actually hooked up to the suit or in the tower.

"Jarvis, count the stars for me." No answer.

"Damn you Jarvis, you British asshole, I will reprogram you with Sharon Osbourne's voice. I will, I really, really" Tony's voice cut off as his body rioted and he vomited up a stream of pure vodka. He managed to turn his head slightly, but most of it landed on him. He coughed and sputtered weakly. There had been entirely too much vomiting and not enough blacking out thus far.

_Why am I still conscious? _

He felt fire in his stomach and knew he should turn over so he wouldn't choke as his body reversed peristalsis to try and get the alcohol out of him. Somewhere in his spirit-soaked brain, he actually _knew _that, but Tony couldn't figure out where his arms were. Or where the ground was, for that matter. He felt himself choke as his throat filled again and the glowing stars began to dim as he felt huge hands turn him over and pound him violently on the back.

His vision swung wildly, the picture of the ground in front of him moving in sweeping arcs like a child swinging a lantern in the night. His senses were cutting out on him, CNS diluted, dendrites short circuiting, flashing from numb to lightning hot.

He felt the ground under his palms as his stomach heaved violently—_When is this going to stop?—_and was finally emptied. He groaned, hoarse from the vodka and bile when the voice presumably attached to the huge hands spoke to him.

"Stark's son! What have you gotten yourself into this time? Have you fallen ill?"

Another voice, quieter and sardonic, answered the question.

"No, he's just drunk. Like, alcohol-poisoning drunk. Which is impressive considering he's only been gone for…40 hours? Have you been here the whole time Stark?"

Tony groaned, not believing his ears, as he was turned around and came face-to-face with Thor. And Clint. Well…multiple Thors and Clints. Maybe.

"Stark? Can you hear me?"

_Thor, _who didn't even live on _EARTH _and…Clint. Thor, red and gold and metallic and fucking _shining_ and Clint, standing next to Thor in all black, slight and intense, eyes like ice, bow strapped to his back, looking like he would rather be anywhere on the earth.

He blinked, vision powering down, half-black, drained of color. "Jarvis. I'm hallucinating." No answer.

"I need…" he couldn't focus his eyes, couldn't figure out what he was looking at.

_Oh, fuck. _It was like dying somehow and he wondered if he hadn't been slipped something by one of those seemingly-honest Icelandic men. Must have been.

As he stared, what he was looking at dissolved. He felt something ephemeral bubble in his veins. It boiled through him and snapped his head back on his neck, turquoise stars melting across the sky.

He saw a black hole open up right above his head, tangled and wispy at the edges like the portal Loki had opened and he felt himself throw his arms wide toward the sky, disorienting memories of flying into nothingness competing with reality.

He felt himself get sucked up into it and then he felt nothing.

* * *

_He was hot. He was living in a fire, and a fire was living in his chest._

_He tried to open his eyes but couldn't. Tried to sit up but couldn't. _

_He felt something spark, a wildfire kindle and suddenly he was burning. Something in him was _burning.

_He needed it to stop. He was strong, had gotten himself to the top of the world. He could stop the fire, put it out. _

_He was Tony Stark. Tony. Fucking. Stark. _

His eyes flew open, blind, "MAKE IT STOP."

Voice shot to pieces, chords tearing to vibrate, "MAKE. IT. STOP."

There were hands against his chest and he shrieked in terror, the hands too close to the reactor. Before he knew what he had done his arm was encased in metal and he was striking out at whoever was touching him. He wasn't going to let them hurt him anymore. He was getting out of the cave, no matter what.

Tony swung and was stopped as a huge hammer slammed into his chest, knocking him to the floor. The hammer stayed there, pinning him to the ground as effectively as if he had been lying on the super magnet in a Nuclear Magnetic Resonance machine. Like he was lying on a magnet strong enough to vibrate the triple bond between molecular nitrogen, which loves itself more than anything.

The facemask on his suit flipped up and Tony opened his eyes slow, like he had forgotten how. Sun stabbed into his eyes and tears streaked down his cheeks as they tried to shield themselves from it, tried to focus.

Thor came into focus first, standing above him, frowning. His absurdly muscled arms were crossed over the chest plate of his armor and Mjölnir was sitting on his chest.

"Get the tinker toy off of me," Tony ground out. If he hadn't been so hungover, so _hurting_, he probably would have, could have done something else. As it stood he basically wanted to crawl into a hole and die and he didn't take kindly to Blondie And His Tools standing in his way.

_Fuck, I hurt. _

Unbidden, the ghost of Bruce's hands were on his body, kneading the cramps out of his spine, licking at the reactor, purifying him of the terror sweats he was soaked with. His abdominal muscles cramped savagely and he bit his tongue on the pitiful whine that tried to crawl out of his mouth. He sat up and gave the command to Jarvis, was sitting in just his wife-beater and shorts half a minute later, staring up at Clint, who was hovering over him. Thor had left shortly after getting Mjölnir off him, muttering about how hungry he was.

"Haven't you ever heard too much of a good thing can kill you?" Clint was standing really close to him, staring down at him blandly. Tony returned his stare silently.

_Why is he so damn close to me_?

Tony sharpened his stare into a glare, trying to give the archer a hint. If he got it, however, Clint remained unworried.

"You aren't going to answer me? That's fine, I'm taking you in regardless."

Tony glowered, opened his mouth to say something, but before he got anything out, Clint had knocked him upside the head. He was dragged into the bathroom and deposited unceremoniously into the shower, where ice water beat down on him, stinging and frigid. He stared at Clint in shock, hungover to the point of stupidity, as the other man pulled his bracelets from his wrists.

Clint bared his teeth in a wolfish grin.

"Make sure you get behind your ears." And then he was gone.

* * *

When Natasha found Bruce—sweat sticking her armor to her skin, hair haloing wildly around her face in the humidity—she thought he was dead.

They didn't have a ton of info on where he had gone, just some satellite pictures of him on the beach, then wandering south. But those pictures got her close enough that after no more than 45 minutes of wandering, she almost stumbled right over him. He was lying in the grass, prone, borrowed clothing stuck to him like he had been swimming.

She stared at Bruce's still form breathlessly and reached for his pulse.

It was easy to find, hammering fast and tight against her fingers, his skin slick and burning. As she brushed against his throat Bruce let out a low moan of pain. She felt her chest tighten as she flipped him over, searching for any clues as to the source of his fever.

_What is the matter with you?_

Natasha radioed into the backup team, signaled them to pick them up and get the doctor to medical help as soon as possible. She was genuinely fond of the awkward scientist, who was the opposite of Tony in almost every conceivable way.

Except the freaky way the two of them communicated mostly through knowing looks and a made-up sounding language that _could_ have been English but most definitely wasn't. Except the way they had been living together for over a year now, compatible like a bed and pillows. Compatible like they needed each other, like the two of them weren't really effective as human beings without the other and—_Oh. _

Natasha thought she probably should have seen it sooner.

* * *

Sure, withdrawal sounded bad. It sounded bad, had been used in cautionary tales as a bad thing. He had heard it romanticized and made somehow insignificant.

Bruce had come to find that there was no accurate way to describe what was happening in his body. Not that he was conscious. He was caught in some twilight world made entirely of pain.

_Find it. Find it. _

He tried to find the edge of the wasteland he had been plunged into, tried to get his hands on something he could hold, touch. Usually it worked. Usually, if he could just _find it, _find his limbs that he had lost, find the synapses that had gone dormant, he could get his body to power back up. But he couldn't find it. All that existed was the dreams. Dreams made hideous by the pain flashing through his body.

His heart felt like it would actually break his sternum, or break itself at the very least. There was a reedy tension fluttering through his valves that made them feel weak and liable to tear, as his blood _thundered_ through him like Niagara Falls put in a chokehold.

His reticulocytes were trying to kill him. They were looking for their hydroxydihydrocodeinone to bind to in his red bone marrow, and they weren't finding it, so they were attempting to shred his entire hemic system to pieces.

Bruce moaned, past thinking anymore. Someone with something akin to a tattoo gun was needling him, his entire skin being pounded with that relentless, penetrating, numbing feeling. It was driving him crazy. He couldn't think past the looped refrain of pain.

His muscles were contracting wildly, making him writhe in a motion he couldn't feel. He couldn't feel the restraints pinning him to a bed with white sheets, couldn't hear the doctors fussing over him.

* * *

Bruce Banner couldn't hear the doctors, but someone inside of him could. None of the voices had bodies.

"We should sedate him."

"He is going through _withdrawal_, Dr. Harper. From narcotics, no less. And you think we should sedate him with narcotics? Am I understanding you right?"

"This is cruel. We should be administering methadone at the very least to detox him faster and with less side effects."

"If he didn't want to have to deal with withdrawal, he should not have become addicted in the first place."

"Considering his tachycardic state, leaving him without any type of sedation is opening us up to the very real possibility of another…_incident._"

"Incident of what kind? What exactly are you suggesting?"

"Dr. Harper, I must insist that you put down the—"

Both voices were silenced. The figure on the bed had gone still and picked up a very green hue.

* * *

"No. I'm serious."

Clint Barton's expression was one of extreme doubt. She saw his hand twitch in a slight, abandoned motion, and wondered if he had been about to check her for fever.

Natasha lowered her voice even more and hissed at him, "_Clint. _I'm _serious_. They're together. They have to be."

Clint turned to look at her full on, seemingly expressionless. Natasha only knew better because she knew him well. She could see the disquiet, could practically taste the electricity firing down his synapses as his brain sorted through the information he had been given, cross-checking it with what he already knew.

Finally, he nodded, a slight concession. "I guess it would explain a lot," he paused, "but I don't know Tasha. It just. Doesn't seem right. Or smart. Or healthy, or like a good idea at all, really." He broke off, still deep in thought.

She couldn't help but agree to a certain extent as a thought hit her. "Wait. Aren't Tony and Pepper still together?"

Their eyes locked, both widened and perplexed, when a splintering roar rent the air. Suddenly Director Fury was flying past them, trench coat whipping. His voice floated back to them, delayed and blistering with, well, fury.

"Fucking hell, not again."


	7. Gauze

**A/N: Hey kids! My brain has been interested in daydreaming rather than writing. I hope y'all enjoy this one. The time has come where I have begun to ease up on the terrible things I've been putting these two through. 'Begun' being the operative word. Tell me what you think! **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. **

**Warnings: Language, dithering, angry women, slight masochistic tendencies on the part of one Dr. Banner, men who like each other, m/m action. If you don't like any of this don't read ittttttt.**

* * *

When Tony opened his eyes, he knew he had been asleep for a long time. He could feel it in the sick sleepiness weighing his limbs to the bed. He groaned into the mattress—somehow he managed to pass out _on _his face—and turned so he could breathe better. He was 97% sure he was lying in a large puddle of drool. As Tony turned and took in the rest of his room he realized somebody was sitting in a large armchair close to his bed. He didn't recognize it and his mind started off on a tumbling, ineffectual pathway, wondering where the chair could have come from, as he tried to ignore the person sitting in the chair. She didn't leave.

As a pale eyebrow rose he decided he had to say something or risk disembowelment. It was really too early for these decisions.

"Um, hi Pepper," he started. His voice was gravelly, almost unintelligible, and he felt like he had swallowed some of those desiccant packages they stick into shoeboxes to keep them from growing mold.

"You owe me one hell of an explanation Tony." Pepper looked mad, which was to be expected. She also looked like something fundamental in her world had been taken and replaced by its opposite, however, and that hurt to look at.

Their relationship had not ended well. It had ended relatively quietly, but it hadn't ended well. Then again, relationships that end in bed rarely do.

Tony thought it was going great. Seriously, he was with _Pepper_, how could he even be any luckier? It had always been fairly obvious that he needed her on an instinctive level to keep his life from wrecking itself. It had taken him longer to realize that he actually wanted her, needed her, as more than a distraction.

They broke up the last time they were together. The memory of betrayal flashing across her delicate features as Pepper shoved him away from her, pulling the sheet to cover herself, was close enough to take his breath away. He could see the way she turned away, moonlight silver down her alabaster spine, as she yelled at him to Just Get The Fuck Out, She'd Had Enough like it was happening in front of him again. He flinched.

Since Tony realized exactly how he felt about Bruce, he had started thinking that Pepper had figured out what was going on before he had. He had started thinking maybe Pepper didn't hold it against him—maybe she wouldn't hate him. It wasn't like he had planned this, wasn't like he actually wanted what had happened—or so he told himself. (It was easier that way.) After all, in another world they would have ended up together in a boring house with a white picket fence, little kids chasing each other around the yard with Pepper's hair and Tony's mischievous expression.

In another world there was a Tony Stark who _didn't _[love] really care about a scientist who was lying heavily sedated in an indestructible glass cage and who was more than likely bat-shit crazy. In another world this was easy, he didn't drink too much, he was happy—they _all_ were happy.

"I'm waiting Tony."

The look on her face as she demanded he explain himself made it clear that she hadn't figured out what was going on until recently. It was also clear that she held it against him.

_Open your mouth Stark, you owe it to her. You owe her and you know it. _

"I, uh. I" He stopped. _What the fuck can I even say at this point? _

"What is going on between you and Dr. Banner?" Pepper asked, tone hard.

"Well. I. He. We." He broke off and cleared his throat. His heart plummeted. He was staring so hard he couldn't see Pepper. So he focused on a montage of pictures in his head instead of her implacable expression, forcing him to say out loud that he had fucked shit up and there wasn't an easy fix.

Because there are those mistakes, mistakes that hurt people and ruin relationships and rip holes into a person. Some things don't have a way back.

So he took the solace he could and let his eyes lose focus as Bruce's easy smile flashed in his vision. "I _like _him and he freaked out and we shouldn't have but I was so fucking s—" and he chokes on the word, skips it—Tony Stark doesn't get _scared_—"but now he's all mad and I'm pretty sure he's crazy and he's all fucked up on drugs and I just." He stopped abruptly as he realized how mad he was and that somehow this had made him close to tears.

_Shit, get a grip. _

Tony looked at Pepper. She was pale, mouth drawn, looking through him.

"Did you sleep with him Tony?" Her voice was tiny.

He just continued to look at her, expression locked. _I already apologized, didn't I? … Did I? I've already paid for this._ _I've paid for my mistake. _She turned away from him, the cords in her neck standing out as she locked her jaw around whatever was trying to escape her throat.

"I'm not going to fix this for you. I'm taking time off, don't expect me back." And with that she was standing up, moving through the door, back rigid like she was held together with steel bolts.

When the door slammed shut he realized he hadn't actually apologized, so he whispered, "I'm sorry," to the stale air in his room.

* * *

A half-hour later Tony was most of the way through one of the bottles of Scotch he had stashed in the lower part of his bedside table. Things seemed supremely more manageable in this state.

_So what? Bruce doesn't like you. He's wrong in the head, better off without him. So what, Pepper is mad. She…well. She will either come back or she won't. It will be okay. You've lost more. _

At some point he must gone into the bathroom, because the last thing he had a vague memory of was something fluffy brushing against his arms.

* * *

There are some people it is impossible to stay away from. Bruce was finding this out the hard way.

He was finally off sedation and fully detoxed (at least physiologically speaking), if covered in bruises. Everyone gave him wary looks when he went anywhere, which he felt was probably fair. After maybe six hours of said treatment he sequestered himself in his quarters and got Jarvis to lock everybody else out. The whole Tower was swarming after the recent…activity.

_How typical that the two of you managed to cause an international frenzy. _Bruce was pretty sure Tony was banned from Iceland, and New York wasn't thrilled with his behavior, even though he didn't cause _that_ much damage.

Basically, shit sucked. And he was lonely. Bruce hadn't realized how much Tony and himself had sequestered each other from the rest of, well, everybody, until he was by himself again.

It was that vein of thinking that had him sneaking through the Tower, trying to find Tony without anybody else seeing—and therefore stopping—him.

_This is ridiculous, I _live _here, _he thought has he peered around a corner into an empty hallway. So far Jarvis had helped him avoid everybody.

If there was one thing Bruce was good at, it was blending into the background.

When he finally got to the doorway of Tony Stark's expansive bedroom, he didn't want to knock. He could only imagine the kind of reception he would get. Not that Bruce blamed Tony—if he had been on the receiving end of such treatment, he wouldn't want to talk to the other person either.

Feeling mildly ridiculous, Bruce whispered, "Jarvis?"

The AI responded promptly, in a muted voice matching his, "Yes, Dr. Banner?"

"Is Tony inside?"

"Yes. However, Mr. Stark is…indisposed at the moment." Bruce decided he could work with indisposed. He reached for the doorknob, feeling like a stalker, and tried the lock. It was open.

The inside of the room was dark and smelled like alcohol and the bed was empty. Bruce moved through the empty room and pushed open the door to the bathroom, filled with déjà vu.

Tony was passed out on his face on one of the fluffy rugs and appeared to be attempting to cuddle with both it and an empty bottle of scotch. His undershirt was tangled around his chest, his boxers pushed up around his thighs, and he was only wearing one sock.

_He's always drunk now. This is all your fault, Banner. Fucking all of it. _

He didn't want to disturb him, or heaven forbid actually wake him up, so Bruce just sat down on another of the fluffy rugs and stared at his still form, thinking. He didn't have a good explanation for his behavior and he couldn't imagine Tony actually forgiving him. He figured now would be a good time to pack up and leave town.

_And how will that work? You belong to S.H.I.E.L.D now. They aren't going to let you leave and even if they did, you need their protection. _That thought wasn't comforting. As he stared at nothing Tony shifted slightly on the carpet, made a soft sound and Bruce jumped as he snapped out of his pondering. Terrified that Tony was coming out of his stupor, Bruce scrambled to his feet and started backing toward the door.

_No really, wake up right now. That's just perfect. On the off chance you don't hate me enough for throwing you through a huge glass wall, I'm sure creeping on you will do the trick. _Bruce felt like yelling with frustration—_How does one person even continue to fuck shit up like this? _

He was almost free and clear of the bathroom when he tripped on Tony's other sock and crashed to the floor. His occipital lobe kindly slammed the door shut for him (while he was still on the _wrong _side of said door) and Bruce found out why it is generally thought sneaking out is more effective when one actually watches where his or herself is placing their feet.

Tony hadn't been particularly conscious before the door slammed shut—_And really, did it have to actually be _that _loud?_—but he was now. He managed to roll over and lever himself into an upright position with his arms stretched behind him to hold him up. His clothes were still out of place and he was staring at Bruce without any expression whatsoever. It was like he didn't even know him.

Bruce felt something in his chest take flight, brushing light and tachycardic through his valves. He felt his mouth open, heard "I'm sorry," come out of his throat, without even tasting the words.

Tony just stared at him.

After a moment or two of feeling awkward, Bruce got worried. This wasn't normal behavior. _Is he okay? _He tentatively got to his feet and took a step toward Tony, searching for a reaction. When he didn't get one he kept going, covered the distance between them and kneeled next to him. Bruce reached for the pulse in his throat, when suddenly Tony had his hand in an iron-tight grip, was staring at him with fire in his eyes.

"What makes you think you can be in here? What makes you think you can _touch_ me?" His breath smelled of alcohol, and his eyes were huge, pupils blown and lightless. His eyes weren't actually focused on him though and Bruce wondered if he wasn't still unconscious.

Bruce tried to pull his hand out of Tony's, tried to escape while he at least had all of his limbs intact, if nothing else, but Tony wouldn't let go. Instead, he had shifted his position, shifted himself closer to Bruce.

"I should never have gotten so close to you. Should never have let you in." The expression on his face was all Bruce could see, all teeth and broken eyes, as Tony moved his body over his, pushed Bruce flat onto the ground.

"Who the _fuck_ do you even think you ARE?" He screamed and then the implacable fists of Tony Stark were slamming into his chest, hands grabbing at his shirt.

"I. Am fucking _IRON MAN_. WHO are YOU?" He felt his head knock into the tile—_Where is that stupid rug when you need it?_—and then there were lips on his. Tony pried his mouth open, growled into him and then _bit_ him, drawing blood. Despite himself Bruce melted into the abuse, felt blood pooling in his groin. He couldn't help it—it was _Tony_.

Even when he slammed him into the floor and tore at him, even when his blunt nails ripped into the back of his arms, Bruce knew Tony. Even when his triceps screamed at him and he tasted blood on his tongue, Bruce needed Tony. He needed him on a molecular level, had missed him an inordinate amount for their relatively brief separation. It didn't make sense, but he couldn't help it.

The mouth on his pulled back and Tony wasn't yelling at him anymore. He was silent, breathing harshly, collapsed on top of Bruce. The way Tony fit into his arms, the way their bodies locked together, amazed Bruce. Tony writhed against him like he was in pain and Bruce thought he probably needed to say something.

"I'm so fucking sorry Tony. I can't even tell you," he whispered. Tony sat up, got off of him and Bruce sat up too, stared at him. Tony looked like shit. He was ashen under his stubble, his hair in disarray, lower lip bloody where Bruce had apparently bitten him back. The reactor glowed through Tony's shirt and Bruce could see the maze of veins around his heart, something he thought the Vibranium core had eliminated.

He also wouldn't look at him. "Hey_._ Look at me." Bruce shifted closer to Tony, slid a hand into his thick hair and tilted his head up, trying to catch his eyes. When he still wouldn't look at him Bruce tugged on his hair and that caught his attention. Tony's eyes were dark like that 95% pure dark chocolate that tasted gross, and they glowed as his mouth parted and then Bruce was pinned to the ground again.

"Tony," Bruce's voice was harsh as Tony bit him again on the throat. "Tony, I feel like you are avoiding," he broke off to flip them and to disengage his fucking _mouth_, "everything. Can you talk to me?"

Tony went still, eyes open and staring at him, mocking him probably. "Pepper left. You left, I left, Pepper left. Everyone fucking left. No. I don't want to talk about it. There isn't anything to say."

"There isn't anything to say?" Bruce asked incredulously. "What are we doing here? Are we just fucked up or is this going to be real?" They were grown ass men, they could talk to each other.

_Just say the damn words. Say it._

"I need this to be real Anthony. Or I'm packing my bags."

Tony's eyes darkened. "Did you just call me _Anthony? _You want real? Okay, let's try real." And Bruce found himself flipped onto his stomach, Tony hard against his ass, grinding into him.

"What do you want me to say? You want me to say I want you to be my fucking _boyfriend?_ Hmm? You want to be my cutie pie? We're _men_, suck it the fuck up. You know I want you. As I remember it, _you're _the one who caused this whole damn thing." Tony pulled on his hair, shoved him into the tile.

Bruce growled.

"Oh come on baby boy, you just gonna take it?" Tony growled low in his ear and Bruce felt blood rush up his neck. _Two can play that game_. He pushed himself up and pinned Tony to the ground.

"Answer my fucking question or I might make _you_ take it." He bared his teeth, feeling mildly ridiculous, but that was quickly replaced by a surge of lust as he watched Tony's whole expression fill with fire.

_Oh shit, he likes this_. Bruce swallowed, a new plan forming.

"You'd fucking like that wouldn't you?" Bruce leaned down flush with Tony, trying to conceal his blush, as he hissed into his ear, "You want me to make you take it? You want me to fuck you Tony?"

Tony made some incomprehensible noise, bucked up against him and Bruce pinned his wrists above his head, attached his mouth to Tony's neck, licking at him. He tasted like scotch, seeping out of his pores. Neither of them was at their freshest, but it didn't really matter. This was going to be rough and dirty and Bruce felt like he was going to explode with need.

He rolled Tony over onto his stomach and hissed, "Stay," against his neck. Then he scrambled to his feet, ran back into the bedroom and returned with lube. He wondered briefly about condoms, flashed back to their mutual confession of a woefully long dry spell, and decided against it.

Tony was lying on his stomach, unmoving, and Bruce could see the tension wound through his muscles, could hear the labored rasp of his breath. It was obvious that he was turned on to the point of pain and Bruce wondered if anybody had ever had him in this position before. He doubted it, and that turned him on even more.

He flipped the lights off, hoping it would give him confidence, and then had a hard time not tripping over Tony in the dark. He ended up sidling onto him relatively easily and he pulled his boxers off roughly. He poured lube onto his hands and slid one cold finger between the cleft of Tony's ass. He circled the small hole tentatively, running his finger in circles around the rim, dipping it in slightly. He had no idea what he was doing.

Regardless of his inexperience, Tony was coming undone rapidly. He couldn't see his face, but Bruce had never heard him make anything close to the noises he was making now, which made him think that whatever he was doing wasn't too far off from what he was supposed to be doing.

He slowly slid his finger into Tony, and he had no idea how _he_ was supposed to fit into something so tight. Tony moaned and Bruce pulled the finger out and tore his shirt off of him, actually ripping it in half. He ran his nails down Tony's spine and watched as he shuddered under his hands. Bruce kneaded his hips and bit at his spine, while he pushed the finger back in, moving it in circles, and then adding another one.

"Oh, fuck. Bruce, oh fuck oh my g—" Tony cut off as Bruce bit down on his shoulder.

"Do you like that?" He meant it more as an actual Am-I-Doing-This-Right question but Tony apparently took it in a dirty-talk way. He shoved his ass back onto his scissoring fingers and said, "_F-Fuck, yes. _Bruce I ugh, I" Bruce had steadily worked his fingers up into him and he crooked them slightly, brushing against the slight swelling he assumed was Tony's prostate.

Tony ceased making any comprehensible noises and started moaning low in his throat. Bruce decided that mean he was ready. Even if Tony wasn't, he was, erection straining in his pants, his whole body filled with the hot pressure and anxiousness. He couldn't even believe he was doing this to _Tony. Stark._ He tore at his pants, and then his boxers, not sure if he got even one button undone correctly, and pushed both to his knees.

He took a deep breath, panic-checked his heart and brain for unwelcome presences, and then pressed his tip at Tony's entrance and pushed against him just the slightest bit. He ran his nails down Tony's spine and Tony arched into the touch, shoved himself back onto his length, impaling himself and Bruce lost it.

"Fuck Tony, you're so tight, shit, when was the last time you did this?" Bruce's voice was thready and he had to focus hard to keep his heart rate down.

"Bruce, _move_," Tony's managed to choke out.

Bruce shifted his hips forward, thrust into Tony a tiny bit and then slammed his weight down onto Tony's shoulders. "Just give me a fucking minute and _then_, when I'm ready, I'll fuck you so hard you see stars."

Bruce felt the strangled pull of air Tony forced into his lungs. "Oh, fuck, do you have any idea how hot you are when you talk like that? _Fuck._"

Bruce was shaking, filled to the brim with desire. He couldn't see past his need, could barely make out Tony's spine stretched in front of him. Tony's body was molten hot, achingly tight around him. He moaned, voice coming out harsh and foreign. He didn't say anything to Tony before he pulled out to the tip and then slammed back into him, hitting his prostate in the process. Tony's arms went out from under him, and he barely kept his face from crashing into the tile.

He managed to establish a rhythm, a _fast_ rhythm, considering he didn't think he was going to last very long. He reached under Tony and grabbed his dick, which was weeping, and used Tony's precome as lube. He began to stroke him in time with his thrusts and it was all Bruce could do to keep from coming right then, just from the noises Tony was making under him.

"Ugh, fuck, I'm not going, to," Tony's voice cut out as Bruce slammed into him again, circled the head of his dick with his thumb, "last, I, ugh," he cut off breathless.

Bruce ran his hands up Tony's spine, which was beaded with sweat, and then ran his hand into Tony's hair, pulled his head back up and whispered into his ear, "Come for me Tony." He tugged on him one last time and Tony made a noise that might have been him trying to say his name, but the most he got out was a faint 'Br' sound.

Tony clamped down on him and that combined with the faint 'Br' sound sent him over the edge. He lost it in Tony, coming with enough force that he felt a faint brush inside of his temples of someone else trying to break free. The presence faded as Bruce took a huge breath, slowed the galloping of his heart.

He pulled out of Tony, his come dripping out of Tony's ass, and collapsed onto the floor next to him, feeling a hundred percent better than he had a half hour ago. Tony was lying on his stomach, head cradled on his arms. Bruce turned to look at him, brushed a light touch up his temple. "How was that?"

Tony turned his head, eyes glittering and dark. "How do you think? Shit, Banner."

"You didn't answer my question," he whispered. He didn't want to force the issue, but he needed to know.

"Wha—"

"The one about when the last time you did that was," Bruce cut him off, knowing what was coming.

"Not too long ago…with you. Don't tell me you don't remember, I'm sure it was amazing for you too," Tony was smirking, gearing up for a rant.

"You _know_ what I mean Tony. When was the last time you…someone did that to you?"

Tony swallowed and his glittering eyes fluttered half shut. "If I said never I would have to swear you to secrecy on the threat of your life. So it's probably better if I didn't say that, don't you think?"

Bruce felt his eyes pop open, tried to keep his mouth from doing the same. "Are you seriously telling me that I just took your…um," he broke off flushing.

Tony laughed. "So, do you want to be boyfriends or whatever? Or are you going to ignore me and then throw me around on my roof again?"

Bruce flushed. "I'm clean now. I just, I'm _so_"

Tony slid over to him, kissed him lazily on the mouth. "Don't, it's okay," he whispered against him.

"So are you going to answer my question?" Tony asked, hands sliding around him, both of them sweaty and covered in each other's come.

"Yes, Tony. My answer was always yes." He shut his eyes, focused on the hands on him, stuffing gauze into the holes in his chest.

They lay on the floor, tangled in each other, both more at peace than they had been in weeks.

* * *

**Hopefully I didn't get too OOC with the slash, I usually never ever read slash where Tony is submissive, and I really don't even like it, so I have no idea where this came from. Tell me if it worked or not pretty please!**


	8. Lost Logic

**A/N: Oh my goodness you guys. The terrible things I had to do to write this chapter. Unthrilling times in the life lately. My mom—not my actual mother—but my **_**mom**_** has breast cancer. So excuse the crazy fucked-up shit coming forth, I fall off the rails easily. Besides, I was faltering on the plot and a legit bad guy always helps. **

**Writing this spawned one crazy, unmanageable oneshot that I actually posted and one not so crazy oneshot I will manage to fit into this story. Oh, PS, I'm surprised nobody yelled at me for this but in real life during sexy-times USE PROTECTION KIDS. That is all. **

**This chapter won't win any feel good awards. **

**Disclaimer: Don't worry, I don't claim things that aren't mine. Also not mine is the villain who pops up in this chapter. It isn't Bane, but he is modeled off of Bane. Kind of. Enough that I feel the need to tell everyone he isn't mine. **

**Warnings: Language, per usual, slight self-injury, my attempt at horror I guess. Is that a warning? Graphic science experiments on people that might be/are probably disturbing. **

…..

Tony was surprised when, after no more than five minutes after they had finished, Bruce fell asleep right on the floor, breathing deeply. He was naked with his pants still tangled around his ankles and his body was peppered with bruises. Tony frowned down at him and traced one on his hip. _What the hell happened to you? _He reached up and tangled one of his hands through his hair. Bruce murmured softly and curved into his touch. Tony smiled at that and found himself lying down to curl up into his side—_You are not cuddling, no you aren't—_when Jarvis announced someone trying to gain unauthorized access to his room.

Tony frowned, jumped up from the ground, and almost fell to the floor as pain lanced through his lower back and…buttock regions. They certainly hadn't used an abundance of lube. He fumbled into pants and tottered to the door, moving painfully. He shut the bathroom door and then opened his bedroom to the unhappy expression of Director Fury.

"What exactly is going on in there Stark?" Fury sounded pissed. Tony didn't think he had a reason to be so. He leaned against the door and crossed his arms over his bare chest, over the reactor.

"Why director, how kind of you to drop in. What can I do for you?"

"I need you to come down stairs right now. There's an emergency."

Tony frowned. "No."

"I _know _Banner is in there. We need him too." A vein in Fury's neck pulsed.

"You need _Banner_ or you need the Hulk?" Tony slid out of his room toward Fury, inched the door closed behind him and then leaned against it. He wasn't letting Fury into his room, worldwide emergency be damned. Bruce was more important. Tony thought of the fragility in Bruce's eyes as he let Tony inside him, thought of Bruce's weight on him, his hands shaking as he hit parts of Tony nobodyelse had. No way was S.H.I.E.L.D. using him as some kind of fuck toy to clean up their messes. _Over my dead body._

Tony surreptitiously ran a thumb over his wrists, checking for the bracelets. _Damn it. _He was just getting ready to say something to Fury that would get him into possibly more trouble than he needed, just to distract him, when the bedroom door opened behind him. He fell back, boneless with surprise, and was stopped by a soft t-shirt against his back. Bruce's arms were around his waist briefly, brushed against a hip, conciliatory, before he was righted and a fully dressed Bruce pushed past him.

"Where do you need me?" He started down the hall, barefoot and in a loose pair of Tony's jeans. Fury followed hot on his heels and they were out of sight before Tony had finished processing what had just happened.

_Those are my pants,_ Tony managed to think belatedly as his chest tightened. He turned, darted into his room, grabbed his bracelets and ran to the emergency stairs. He managed to get to the common floor nine flights down only a little later than Bruce and Fury. The entire team was there already, dressed in gear and ready to go. They were all staring at the television, which was on a news channel with 'Breaking News' flashing across the screen. Nobody even looked at Tony when he came hustling in, out of breath and shirtless.

Tony stared at the television screen. Horror shivered up his spine, sharp like glass and he looked around for Bruce out of reflex. Bruce was across the room from him, on the other side of the semicircle the Avengers were loosely grouped in. His expression had been wiped entirely off of his face. Tony saw something vicious flash across his features before it sunk under his sleepy eyes and disappeared. He blinked, shards of horror spilling from his spine into his ribcage, and turned back to the television.

The picture was grainy, clearly being streamed from a less-than-professional source. It showed the inside of a room that was set up sort of like an operating room. There was a young boy strapped to the table, naked from the waist up, and a man in a long white lab coat wearing a white plague doctor's mask stood over him, a 60 blade in his gloved hand. Tony shivered. _That's a huge scalpel, bigger than a 10 blade. What the fuck is he doing? _

The doctor looked at the camera and spoke, voice deep and warped through some kind of distorter. "I have a message for all of you who live in this consumerist society. A message for everyone who takes what is not theirs and feels safe in this city because a group of The Avengers think they are so special that they can protect everyone. But they aren't special—their parts can be bought, they can be _made._ See how long you all stand up to my army, to my superior versions of them. See if they can save you then." With that, he turned back to the boy. He slid the 60 blade across his stomach gently and it wasn't until a fountain of dark blood spilled from it that it was clear how deep the blade cut. The boy thrashed and the incision gaped open at the movement. His hazel eyes widened to where his irises had white all around them and then rolled back into his head. The doctor disappeared off screen and suddenly there were other people in the white coats where he had been. Two widened the incision and held it with clamps.

Tony couldn't look away, couldn't move at all. He felt like some important thread in his brain stem that connected his body to his brain had been clipped, leaving him immobile as he stared at the screen.

The doctor reappeared with another who was holding a tray that had …some kind of mass in what appeared to be an incubator of some sort and a huge glass vial filled with a thick, clear liquid. He pulled a 10 blade from a tray another person was holding, made a quick motion with it inside the cavity and replaced it on the tray. The unconscious boy's arms had started spasming, but the doctor ignored that. He moved to the incubator, pressed something on the side that seemed to be an airlock, waited for the lid to lift, reached in, and pulled the mass out. He placed it into the shaking boy's stomach and then swiftly sewed him back up. Then he grabbed the vial and a large glass syringe. He pulled the thick liquid laboriously into the syringe and gingerly tapped the air bubbles out of it. Then he shot the whole thing right into the boy's left femoral vein. As soon as the vial was emptied the whole room cleared out with utmost haste, leaving the boy on the table alone. The sound of locks bolting the door from the outside was clearly audible over the feed.

The boy on the table had ceased spasming while the doctor sewed him up. Now however, his whole body locked and he arched off the table with the force of his muscles' contractions. A high pitched keening noise whistled from between his locked jaw and a darkness spread through his veins, starting at his hip at the injection site. It looked almost like he was being lit up with contrast for an MRI. It was clear when the liquid hit his arteries, because in less than 30 seconds the whole map of his veins was visible. His arms strained at the restraints and then suddenly bulged. They…bulged and then…got bigger. _Kind of like when Bruce…lit up like an MRI_…_Oh fuck, that was something radioactive. Oh fuck, oh_…Tony's panicking thoughts ceased as the boy's eyes flew open. Where they had been earthy hazel before, they were now antifreeze green. The boy opened his mouth and let out an unearthly howl before his body exploded.

He was big and green like Bruce but that was where the similarities ended. Tony wasn't sure what the doctor had put into his abdominopelvic cavity, but the boy had armored appendages sprouting from the sides of the sewed up incision that actually looked vaguely Chithauri-like…actually, there was more than just the appendages. The stitches bulged and then tore and some_thing_ appeared in what used to be a fragile young boy who was now some kind of experiment. As teeth appeared the…thing howled again, launched his mutated body at the camera and destroyed it. The feed went black and Tony felt his knees go from under him as he fell to the ground vomiting.

…..

The room was either dead quiet or he couldn't hear over the ringing in his ears. If Bruce had anything in his stomach, it would've been on his shoes right then. His eyes were closed in a feeble attempt to calm his heart by ignoring what he had just seen.

_My fault. My fault. Everything is all my fault oh fuck, oh fuck, that boy, that _child _oh, oh my, oh. _He heard someone groaning low in their throat but had no idea who it was. He couldn't feel his feet or any part of the rest of him but when he opened his eyes again he was in the emergency stairwell. There was a B painted on the white wall next to him. He had managed to get all the way to the basement, while in a black out. That probably wasn't good. But his clothes weren't shredded so he hadn't let the other guy out at least.

He stared at his feet numbly and then found himself climbing up the stairs again. It took him until the third floor to actually realize his body was doing something he didn't want it to do. His body was trying to take him back to Tony even though that probably wasn't allowed with the whole fucking team up there. _What do you want him to do, anyway? Hug you and kiss you and tell you it will be okay? In front of everyone? Yah, that will go over so well. It's not going to be okay anyway. That boy got hurt because of you. _YOU. _Because of _you._ You're a monster_. A fucking monster.

Bruce slumped against the wall as sensation flooded back into him. He was shaking. He could feel himself spasming against the wall as the flood of horror crashing through his subclavian veins so hard they throbbed disappeared. The horror bled out of him impossibly fast as he sat on the floor. _What should I do? _Probably not hide in a stairwell. Probably go fight. Go do something.

_But what for? This whole thing is your doing. Do you really think S.H.I.E.L.D. or the 'Avengers' are going to want you with them? Better off gone. Better off dead. _

His eyes popped open. It was always shocking how easily Bruce leapt off the rails. So easy. The leap into the abyss was always two or three thoughts down the line, hiding within logical reasoning. It wasn't though. He knew it wasn't logical, but he couldn't fucking feel it. He couldn't feel any of it after the shock wore off. He felt himself absentmindedly palming his pocketknife, a nervous tick he picked up in Thailand. He only had it because he had used it in the jungles in Thailand, slicing samples of bark and other plant matter off, collecting it to take back to his lab, to try and find a cure. Like that had worked. He had never gotten rid of the knife though, the slide of its carved bone inlaid handle comforting through his nervous palms.

He took it out and turned it over and over in his grasp, thinking of nothing, a huge spot of static where thoughts and plans and actions usually lived in his brain. He was drowning in white noise. Without thinking about it, the knife was open and buried in his thigh to the hilt. Bruce felt his muscles twitch around it and he pulled it out, the blade slick and red. He wiped it off on his pant leg, slightly below where red was spilling onto the denim. Bruce flexed his leg, pain screaming through the frayed muscle groups, but the stream of liquid flowing down his leg wasn't high pressured enough for him to have hit the femoral, so he decided he was good. As he stood up a siren started wailing and he heard feet on the stairs above him.

Bruce leaned heavily against the wall, panic growing in him, and wondered if he could even walk, much less how he was going to _explain the giant stab wound in my leg to everyone oh shit_. The footsteps sounded louder so he made a quick decision. He turned and threw himself down the stairs, barely catching himself at the bottom of the landing, and began to race down to the exit of the tower through the basement.

…

_Where the fuck is Bruce holy shit HE CANNOT BE ALONE RIGHT NOW. Shit, Shit, SHIT SHIT. _

Tony felt like he was probably going to have a stroke before the night was over. The last thing he had expected when he had opened his eyes and managed to wobble back onto his feet, looking for Bruce, was that he would be gone. The entire team had flown apart, launched into high gear and Tony screamed for Jarvis to tell him where Bruce was. Then he slipped away from everyone else and started running, or more accurately, assisted leaping, down the emergency stairs, thoughts screaming at him the whole time. Everything in him was screaming. Screaming that this wasn't happening, screaming that he was a terrible fucking person for even existing, screaming that he needed to collapse and hide. Screaming that he needed Bruce. It was weird how needing Bruce was always just two or three thoughts away now when he wasn't with him.

He had gotten down about half of the stairs before a piercing siren started echoing through the stairs. The siren meant the Tower was in lock down and that the Avengers were in go-mode. Tony itched to press the bracelets, to protect himself, even though it was just a _stair well_.

_This shit is not logical and I do not like it_ he screamed at himself again just as he threw himself down the second to last set of stairs—_I truly am impressive at this, I should bribe someone to get this into the Olympics, provided we all survive of course—_and slammed into someone else so hard it knocked him out.

….

Tony came to on top of _Bruce, _the giant idiot, and his head hurt and he was hysterical. He could feel it in his throat, in how high his voice was pitched, and was powerless to do anything against it. His thoughts screamed at him, so he screamed at Bruce.

"BANNER. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING WE HAVE TO FUCKING GO. HOLY SHIT WHY ARE YOU BLEEDING." Bruce's eyes were like dinner plates, staring at him like Tony had lost his mind.

"Um. Tony. Are you okay?" His voice was soft. There was blood covering the entire top of Bruce's right thigh and it had smeared on the ground when Tony had accidentally steam-rolled him.

"YES. IM JUST FRANTIC BECAUSE YOU ARE NOT MOVING YOUR ASS AND WE. HAVE. TO. _GO._" Tony shouted at him.

"Then can you stop shouting?" Bruce looked at him warily.

Tony crossed his arms, the bubbles in his veins dying down slightly as he breathed in Bruce's scent of Irish Spring soap. "NO." he shouted petulantly.

"Okay, but seriously, what the fuck happened to your leg Bruce?" He narrowed his eyes at him, dared Bruce to lie to him.

"I…uh. Kind of…stabbed myself." Bruce wasn't looking at him, and something in his jaw spasmed.

"You _what?" _Tony barely got out the second word as all the air whooshed out of his lungs. Tony stared at Bruce while Bruce stared at the wall when there were several sets of feet on the stairs not three floors above them. Fury came crashing into view, followed by the rest of the team, and almost trampled them both.

"What are you two DOING? WE HAVE SHIT TO DO." Fury grabbed them both by their arms, hauled them violently to their feet and threw them down the last set of stairs. Tony stared at Bruce worriedly as he was piled into some kind of plane with the two spies, the Capsicle and wonder boy and his tinker toys. Tony sighed as he finally got to get into his suit.

This was going to be a long night.

…

**I planned to write the whole action thing in one long chapter, but it's been a while since I've updated, so yah. To be continued. **


	9. Staring Games

**A/N: So um hi. It really doesn't even make sense how long it took me to write this. Authors often apologize for long absences, and I'm now one of them, because I am really, really sorry. I didn't expect it to happen, and I really hope it doesn't happen again, because I know waiting sucks. So if you are still here and reading this know 1 you are more patient than is normal 2 I appreciate that excess patience a lot and love you bunches. **

**Also, it is worth noting that when inspiration finally struck I seriously almost danced, which is awful considering how white and untalented I am. **

**Disclaimer: Not mine.  
Warnings: Poorly edited things (and run on sentences, I'm sorry), confusion over Natasha's real last name, language, some violence and some fluff.**

* * *

Tony was tired.

And he had seriously had just about _enough_ of mutated, irradiated, half-Chitauri hybrid people attacking him with their stupid, too-long, weirdly armored appendages. He had no idea who this stupid doctor was who did this to all these people but Jarvis had just managed to filter his suit of bile for the third time, which was entirely unacceptable. Tony had made up his mind that he was going to find him after they had finished all of this and mess him up.

His stomach finally emptied, Tony was determined to not focus on what the people used to be, lest it attempt some remarkable feat and find something else to splash out of his throat. It was impressive how much he had been vomiting lately. _This is probably doing serious damage to my esophagus. _Tony pondered that absentmindedly as he blasted another…person-thing apart.

They had tracked down the boy using the same radiation-tracking technology they used to find Loki and had arrived at an abandoned mental hospital somewhere near Connecticut, which didn't make a lot of sense considering the doctor's threats about attacking NYC. They were almost done, having dispatched the so-called "superior versions of themselves" with relative ease, although Tony could tell that he was going to have a nasty bruise after a particularly large creature grabbed him by a foot and slammed him to the ground.

Tony figured the battle was pretty much finished when he heard an abnormally loud roar coming from somewhere to his left. He spun toward it reflexively and saw that one of the creatures had managed to run the Hulk through with a harpoon of some sort. Tony could see barbed hooks protruding from below his shoulder. The Hulk ripped the harpoon out of his shoulder and tore the creature that put it there to pieces. After that silence fell over the entire team and the clearing in front of the hospital.

Tony meant to go over to Bruce to get him to calm down and turn back, but his attempt was thwarted when Captain America blocked his way before he had even gone 5 yards. Steve looked worse for the wear—his uniform stained a viscous black in several parts by some mystery liquid and he was bleeding from several tears in his uniform, where it looked like he had been raked across the stomach by something with claws.

Tony rolled his eyes and then attempted to shoulder his way past Steve. Steve however, didn't give up that easily. He jumped in front of Tony and shoved hard against his chest, shield-first. It seemed ridiculous, Steve was strong but he wasn't stronger than _Iron Man. _

"Tony, wait." Steve's eyes were huge in his face and Tony stopped at that, detecting something unfamiliar in his demeanor. He bounced on his toes, his jaw grinding over something he apparently needed to say.

"Spit it out Cap."

"We need to go inside. To, you know. To check." Steve's face was slowly draining of color, even as his jaw set stubbornly into 'Lets-do-this' mode.

"What exactly are we checking Rogers?" Tony didn't like where this conversation was going, and he didn't like that he had recognized the foreign emotion in Steve Roger's face as near-blind panic.

He also didn't like that someone had stabbed Bruce and Tony wasn't anywhere even close to him. None of this made his mood charitable. He'd had enough of the whole thing and was willing to chalk it up to a coincidence, rather than a case of 'Oh-shit-Loki-and-his-army-of-celestial-creepers-hath-returned'.

"We didn't even see any…thing. Any_one?_" The Captain broke off for a second, derailed, before refocusing, "that even remotely resembled us. Not that, that," he passed to swallow this time and Tony felt his unease beginning to spill into himself, "you know. That we saw on the television. That one wasn't even here. This isn't over so you know, we have to go in there."

Tony frowned. "No. That guy just overestimated himself. We should go back to the city. The boy had to have been here, his signal was what we tracked."

"Actually we just tracked radiation hot spots in general, Tony. Are we leaving? Because I don't feel so hot." Tony and Steve both turned at that, to see a shirtless Bruce being hauled alongside Thor coming toward them, followed by Clint and Natasha.

Tony felt something torn rasp the underbelly of his ribs at the sight of Bruce with a black eye and the still healing wound on his shoulder. He was shirtless, legs shoved hastily into cut off shorts that hid the stab-wound from earlier. Tony's eyes caught low on the brush of hair against Bruce's stomach and he forced himself to turn away before his pulse got the better of him, self-conscious even hidden in the suit. Everyone except Thor looked edgy; Clint and Natasha faced the perimeter of their little group instead of joining the conversation. Both looked like their nerves were wound too tightly and both kept their hands on their respective weapons.

"Okay. You guys. Calm down." Tony said, his voice pitched lower and made somehow more reassuring through Iron Man's system.

"I still say we need to go—" Steve's voice was cut off by a dull, rhythmic chopping noise humming through the air. Tony tensed and looked up, realizing that the noise belonged to a veritable armada of helicopters that were descending onto the lawn. Nick Fury got out as soon as the lead helicopter touched down and stalked toward the group, managing to look more crabby than usual.

"Get in the helicopter!" He yelled at them, managing to somehow shout over the noise caused by the helicopters. Tony wondered if it hurt his throat.

Steve sputtered "Director Fu—" he started to try and yell, but Tony suspected he was the only one who heard him.

"GET IN THE HELICOPTERS NOW" Fury yelled again, louder, as men clad in black armor holding guns that looked weirdly old-school swarmed out of the helicopters, over the front lawn, and toward the building.

As everyone stood and stared at Fury dumbly, Tony screamed, "GO!"

Everyone startled into action at that, moving toward the helicopters, if in a shambling manner. Tony moved to follow the helicopter after it took off when he realized Fury was right in front of him, gesturing wildly and screaming.

"GET OUT OF THE SUIT!" Fury yelled.

"Director, you look like you could use a vacation," Tony replied, managing to keep his nerves out of his voice. For some reason the whole situation was really freaking him out. "Or," he added when the tendons corded out in Fury's neck, "some Xanax."

Fury, instead of yelling more, took out a nightstick from who knows where in his trench coat and aimed a blow at the closest part of Iron Man he could reach. Tony hopped back clumsily, just barely avoiding the blow and yelled, "Okay, okay, jeez" as he hit the buttons to get out of the suit.

A minute later he climbed into the helicopter, lugging the briefcase form of his suit in after him, a briefcase that seemed to have acquired the density of a black hole since the time he last carried it. By the time he half fell into the seat Tony's arms were shaking, the suitcase was scratched, and the sweat on his exposed upper body had cooled. On top of it all, his earlier pain returned savagely as he hit his seat hard and the adrenaline started to disappear from his system. This left Tony feeling miserable, feverish, and in serious need of some type of alcohol. As the helicopter took off Tony leaned his head against the seat and promptly passed out, beyond even feeling his pain or the hands that buckled him into his seat.

* * *

When Bruce saw Tony slump against the seat, out cold from exhaustion he was surprised by the sudden surging need to take care of Tony. Before the feeling could overcome him, the slight nudge against his ribs from Captain America on his left and the weight of Natasha's gaze on him from the right snapped him back into the reality in which he was _not _dating? fucking? fighting? anyone, much less Tony Stark.

_Tony Stark. For a genius Banner, you really need to work on your decision-making abilities. What is it even about him? He's really rather irritating. _

Bruce turned his head surreptitiously (he hoped) so it didn't look like he was randomly staring at Tony and scrutinized the scientist from under lowered eyelashes. It was more than the cut of his muscles under his scarred skin, more than the fluidity of his eyes, the careless, too-big smile. Tony was more than his looks and cavalier behavior. There was something enigmatic about him and part of the enigma was caused because Tony's heart didn't match his behavior. It was a front, all of it—the ego, the women, the parties, the self-destructive partying, the hours in the lab, and particularly the general apathy toward perpetuating his life on the planet. And Bruce wanted to help him work through the problems, but he really couldn't do anything right at that moment except try and not get caught staring by—

"Doctor?" A soft voice from his right asked, and Bruce realized Natasha hadn't stopped staring at him.

_Damn it_. "Yes Miss Romanov?"

"How has everything been?" she continued.

"It's been fine. How has everything been with you?"

"Oh about the same," she replied. "I was actually wondering, Doctor, have you heard from Pepper lately?"

Bruce's heart stopped. He turned his head, at what he hoped was a normal pace, and looked at Natasha. Her expression was collected and empty as usual, which made Bruce nervous.

_Why is she asking about Pepper? I don't even… _Tony's face flashed through Bruce's brain, hurt and filled with vitriolic self-hatred. "_You left, I left, Pepper left. Everyone fucking left." _…Oh shit. Bruce hadn't thought about _why_ Pepper would have left before, there hadn't been time.

_Pepper left because Tony was cheating on her with me? Was he really _cheating _on Pepper with _him?_ Oh, oh shit. Oh no…_ Bruce looked carefully at Natasha's face, and wondered just how much she knew and just how imminent his death actually was.

"No, I haven't I would, um maybe ask Tony about…that or," he ended the statement by clearing his throat ungracefully.

Natasha's eyebrows rose at that. As color flooded into his face Bruce turned away from her gaze and shifted his weight more toward Steve.

_Fuck_.

* * *

Tony remained blissfully unconscious until the helicopter touched down.

Said touch down caused his head to lift away from the seat and then forcefully slam back into it. His eyes popped open and he sat up too quickly, seat belts he did not remember buckling going tight against his chest and shoving him back into his seat. His reaction was fast enough to catch Bruce looking at him pensively, the bags under his eyes making it clear he hadn't slept on what had to have been at least a 2 hour ride. But when they made eye contact, Bruce looked away.

_Weird. _

Suddenly men appeared in the door of the helicopter, yelling and gesturing. Everyone moved into action, unbuckling and pouring out of the helicopter. Tony was left alone, struggling with the stupid buckles.

_What the fuck are these things made to hold in? _He wondered petulantly as he thrashed against the straps. Very large hands appeared in his vision right as he got one buckle undone. When Tony looked up he was not expecting to find Captain America standing in front of him, looking as beaten up as Tony felt. Without making eye contact or saying anything Steve hit a bunch of previously hidden buttons, untangled Tony from the belts, and hauled him to his feet. Steve then promptly exited the helicopter, leaving Tony to scramble after him with his suitcase bumping the floor. Tony narrowed his eyes in confusion at Rogers' receding spangled-spandex-clad back.

_Very weird. _

They were all herded into an absolutely nondescript building and left to cluster at the top landing of a stairwell. On the inside the nondescript building looked a lot like the inside of a ship. Or, the inside of a fortified ship. Either way, it was disorienting. They all stood there staring at each other until the sound of another helicopter was heard. Presently Director Fury strode into the landing on which they were huddled.

"You will stay here, in lockdown, until either this situation is effectively handled or you are all needed for some unmanageable situation." After this brief pronouncement Fury turned around and walked out, followed by protests from the whole team.

"Is he kidding?" Clint asked nobody, looking dumbfounded.

Thor was, unsurprisingly, the loudest out of everyone, "How can we be expected to stay here while there is danger to the people of Midguard?"

Fury didn't turn back at their protests and instead, slammed the door shut with finality, leaving the team surrounded by their armor-clad babysitters.

* * *

Natasha threw her S.H.I.E.L.D. issued black duffel bag, which contained extra clothes and amenities, across her S.H.I.E.L.D. issued "room", aiming at the approximate location where Clint was standing.

Unfazed by the outburst, Clint caught the bag and set it down on top of the tiny, whitewashed desk…table…dresser…thing that occupied the space in the room opposite the bed and just before the entrance to an equally tiny, sparsely furnished bathroom.

"I feel like I'm in a holding cell." Natasha's voice was strained. She was dirty from the fight, pissed off from being treated like a helpless civilian, and creeped out by a situation that would cause Fury to put the Avengers into _hiding. _Then there was the way Tony and Bruce wouldn't stop sneakily staring at each other, the defeated demeanor of Steve, and a tremor in Clint's hands she had never seen before.

Nobody was reacting very well to a situation (with the exception of Thor, who seemed perpetually unfazed as long as there was enough food and nobody was on fire) that was better handled in a group. It seemed likely that this was the main reason for the strain—the majority of the Avengers were not group friendly. And as it happens to turn out, never talking about problems does actually take a toll.

"I know, Tasha." Clint's voice was soft. "But we've had worse, you know?"

She just looked at him.

He scratched the back of his head and shrugged under her laser-stare, meeting her gaze evenly.

"I'll leave you to get cleaned up. I'm two rooms to the left if you need anything."

She nodded, watched him leave, and then began to peel off her armor to get clean.

* * *

Bruce was in the shower for an entirely unreasonable amount of time. He was still in there after he was scrubbed within an inch of his life. He was still in there when the hot water ran out and he was still in there when exhaustion overcame him and he gave up on remaining upright. He was content to sit there forever, huddled over his knees on the tiny, never-been-used-before-and-smells-like-bleach floor of the shower, shivering under the relentless spray of cold water.

His body apparently did not approve of his plans, though, and Bruce was forced to haul himself awkwardly to his feet after his back muscles started to do a very unpleasant thing that consisted mostly of trying to migrate toward his neck, if the pain was anything to judge by. Feeling like a lumbering giant—said tiny shower did not exactly have enough room for a fully-grown man to maneuver in—he clambered out and toweled himself off, after observing the truly hideous state of his pruned fingers and toes.

_That's probably why taking a seven month long shower is not generally advised. _

He stared at his reflection in the mirror, his curls straggling around his face, peppered with gray and too long when wet, the stubble on his jaw, and the generally haggard expression on his face.

_I'm getting old. When did that happen? _

Bruce frowned at himself. It didn't really matter if he looked like shit, and he was too tired to bother seeing if his black duffle bag included an electric razor. Even though he was exhausted, Bruce had a feeling he wouldn't be sleeping tonight. He sighed as he exited his bathroom to find some underwear and a shirt to sleep in and promptly choked.

What Bruce did not see was his empty bed with his duffel on it, which was the state of his room when he left. Instead there were clothes strewn all over the place and none other than Tony Stark, clad only in grey boxer-briefs (which was unsettling and dear Lord he hoped there was some other choice in the bag because no way was _his _ass going to look like _that_) hogging the tiny bed and making the soft noises characteristic of a person deeply asleep. As Bruce noticed his hair was still damp from the shower he looked around, trying to find _his _duffel and nearly had a heart attack when, instead, he found Natasha, lounging against the door, nearly invisible in the darkness.

Bruce started and clutched the towel more tightly around his hips, feeling a tension headache crop up behind his eyes and something pinch in his chest.

_I really don't need to be host to a slumber party right now_.

Natasha stared at him and raked her eyes down his chest, which made Bruce quite sure that there wasn't much he would not give to have himself removed from this situation ten seconds ago.

"Well Dr. Banner," she whispered, "I guess _that_," she tilted her head toward his bare chest, "explains _that,_" she tilted her head toward his bed.

Bruce felt blood flush all the way up his body at her cavalier remark and her expression, which lacked any hint of amusement. She looked dangerous.

"I um. I think you should leave," he started, feeling slightly dizzy. The day had been too long and Bruce was on the verge of collapsing. He felt like he was burning out of his skin and about to slide off of some very high precipice.

_It was a rule nobody could know about them right? Right? That was definitely a rule. Yup. That had to have been a rule. That's always a rule. _

Nobody could know and now one of the deadliest people on the team, if not the deadliest, did, and she looked like she wanted to tear both of their throats out.

"N-Natasha. I um. I need you to leave. Now," his voice was shaky and he slumped against the doorframe, unwilling to look at Natasha anymore. He didn't catch the look of worry that replaced that of anger on her face, but when he heard the door click, Bruce slumped to the floor. A rush of longing for both pills and the solitude amongst masses afforded by Calcutta swamped him and he groaned.

At that noise, small though it was, Tony stirred on the bed. He tried to roll over and sit up, but was unaccustomed to the diminished dimensions of the bed and managed only to fall to the floor, dragging all of the bedding with him. Bruce watched listlessly from the corner he was slumped in as Tony sat up weakly and looked around from his nest of blankets.

"Bruce?" Tony's voice was sleepy. Bruce felt half his mouth turn up against his will. Being around Tony when he was sleepy was one of Bruce's favorite things because sleepy Tony liked to cuddle, even though Bruce knew Tony would die before admitting it.

"What are you doing in here Tony?" Bruce watched as Tony struggled to his feet and began to pile the sheets and blankets back onto the bed.

Tony turned at that and stared at him. Bruce could just make out his closed expression in the light from the reactor. Tony didn't answer him, but came over and sat next to him on the floor instead. He held his hand out in front of Bruce and held it there. It was shaking.

"This day was awful. I feel awful," he trailed off and then cleared his throat. He clenched his hand into a fist and dropped it into his lap.

"I'll leave if you want," he added, making Bruce feel terrible. That's not what he wanted.

"No Tony. I don't want you to leave." He reached out, picked up Tony's hand, and ran a finger down the line of Tony's radial tendon.

"I um," Bruce swallowed, "I need you to stay with me." He did not add, _because I tend to do stupid shit when I am left to myself, despite being a grown-ass man._

Bruce felt Tony looking at him. "Is it bad?"

Bruce swallowed and hummed in his throat. He caught Tony nodding in his peripheral vision. Then Tony stood up, dragged Bruce after him, and pushed him onto the bed, where he sat halfheartedly clutching his damp towel. Tony rifled through a duffel bag he pulled from under the bed—_are they multiplying?—_and pulled out another pair of God-awful boxer briefs (at least these were black) and a too-large super soft t-shirt.

Then Bruce let Tony stand him up and pull the towel off, despite his reluctance. Bruce shut his eyes as he felt Tony run a hand against his hip. Bruce pulled back from Tony's perpetually roaming hands and shrugged into the shirt and briefs. Tony watched him the whole time, unapologetically.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he finally felt the need to ask. There had been too much appraisal of his semi-naked body in one day, or weeks really, as far as Bruce was concerned.

Tony seemed surprised by the question. "I can't help it, I guess."

Bruce sat back down and stared at Tony, before remembering the other problems this day had brought.

"Tony, we need to talk. Natasha was in here and she, um, well," Bruce trailed off.

_Why, oh why, did this have to happen today? All I want is sleep. _

Tony shoved him back onto the bed, bodily moving him as far as he could go, until Bruce's back was nestled in the tiny crook between the mattress and the wall. Tony clambered into the bed, even though it definitely was not large enough for the two of them, and settled himself mostly on top of Bruce.

"Bruce. Please, for the love of all things good and fluffy in this world, not right now."

Bruce wanted to press the issue, but it was hard to remain anxious when Tony was busy nestling himself into his body, using his elbows to open Bruce's arms up and his knees to press his legs open wider. Tony hooked his arms through Bruce's, one leg around a hip and wound his hands into the too-large shirt. It didn't seem like a comfortable position to be in, but Tony's nose was pressed just under his ear and Bruce could feel his heart beating against him, so he wasn't complaining. He folded his arms around Tony's warm back and sighed again as he felt his whole body relax.

Bruce felt himself begin to drift off, but before he could, he managed to sleepily mumble, "Tony?"

"Hmm?"

"You're cuddling."

"Fuck you Banner, I am not," came the reply, mumbled into his neck.

Bruce laughed and was asleep a couple minutes later.

* * *

**Oh, the fluff. This is longer than usual for not having slash. Hopefully it wasn't too awful. Reviews for the return of the prodigal author? Haha jk. I'm just happy if any of you are left. **


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